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SECOND  BOOK  OF  VERSE 


BY  EUGENE   FIELD. 

A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  PROFITABLE 
TALES. 

A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  WESTERN 

VERSE. 
SECOND  BOOK  OF  VERSE. 

Each  one  volume,  I6mo,  $1.25 


SECOND  BOOK  OF  VERSE 


BY 


EUGENE    FIELD 


OF  THB 

UNIVERSITY 


CHICAGO 

PUBLISHED  BY  MELVILLE   E.  STONE 
1892 


Copyright,  z8Q2, 
BY  JULIA  SUTHERLAND  FIELD. 


73 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


A  LITTLE  bit  of  a  woman  came 
Athwart  my  path  one  day ; 
So  tiny  was  she  that  she  seemed  to  be 
A  pixy  strayed  from  the  misty  sea, 
Or  a  -wandering  greenwood  fay. 

"  Oho,  you  little  elf!  "  /  cried, 

"  And  what  are  you  doing  here? 
So  tiny  as  you  will  never  do 
For  the  brutal  rush  and  hullaballoo 
Of  this  practical  world,  I  fear." 

"  Voice  have  I,  good  sir,"  said  she.  — 

" '  Tis  soft  as  an  Angel's  sigh, 
But  to  fancy  a  word  of  yours  were  heard 
In  all  the  din  of  this  world  's  atsurd.' " 
Smiling,  I  made  reply. 

"  Hands  have  I,  good  sir,"  she  quoth.  — 

"  Marry,  and  that  have  you  ! 
But  amid  the  strife  and  the  tumult  rife 
In  all  the  struggle  and  battle  for  life, 
What  can  those  wee  hands  dot" 

"  Eyes  have  I,  good  sir,"  she  said.  — 

"  Sooth,  you  have?  quoth  I, 
"  And  tears  shall  flow  therefrom,  I  trow, 
And  they  betimes  shall  dim  with  woe, 

As  the  hard,  hard  years  go  by  !  " 


VI 


That  little  bit  of  a  "woman  cast 

Her  two  eyes  full  on  me, 
And  they  smote  me  sore  to  my  inmost  core, 
And  they  hold  me  slaved  for  evermore,  — 

Yet  -would  I  not  be  free  ' 

That  little  bit  of  a  -woman 's  hands 

Reached  up  into  my  breast 
And  rent  apart  my  scoffing  heart ', — 
And  they  buffet  it  still  -with  such  sweet  art 

As  cannot  be  expressed. 

That  little  bit  of  a  woman's  voice 

Hath  grown  most  wondrous  dear  ; 
Above  the  blare  of  all  elsewhere 
(An  inspiration  that  mocks  at  care) 
It  risethfull  and  clear. 

Dear  one,  I  bless  the  subtle  power 

That  makes  me  wholly  thine  ; 
And  I  ym  proud  to  say  that  I  bless  the  day 
When  a  little  woman  wrought  her  way 
Into  this  life  of  mine  ! 


in  tli£  ^rcona  I5ooU. 


PACK 

FATHER'S  WAY i 

To  MY  MOTHER 5 

KORNER'S  BATTLE  PRAYER 7 

GOSLING  STEW 9 

CATULLUS  TO  LESBIA 12 

JOHN  SMITH 13 

ST.  MARTIN'S  LANE 22 

THE  SINGING  IN  GOD'S-ACRE 25 

DEAR  OLD  LONDON 28 

CORSICAN  LULLABY  (Folk-Song) 33 

THE  CLINK  OF  THE  ICE 35 

BELLS  OF  NOTRE  DAME 39 

LOVER'S  LANE,  ST.  Jo 41 

CRUMPETS  AND  TEA 44 

AN  IMITATION  OF  DR.  WATTS 47 

INTRY-MINTRY 48 

MODJESKY  AS  CAMEEL 51 

TELLING  THE  BEES 60 

THE  TEA-GOWN 62 

DOCTORS 64 


viii        THE   VERSE  IN  THIS  SECOND  BOOK. 

PAGE 

BARBARA 69 

THE  CAF£  MOLINEAU 72 

HOLLY  AND  IVY 75 

THE  BOLTONS,  22 77 

DIBDIN'S  GHOST 83 

THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN 87 

THE  BOTTLE  AND  THE  BIRD 91 

AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL 96 

PlTTYPAT  AND  TlPPYTOE 103 

ASHES  ON  THE  SLIDE 106 

THE  LOST  CUPID  OF  MOSCHUS no 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 113 

CARLSBAD 115 

THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE 120 

RED 122 

JEWISH  LULLABY 124 

AT  CHEYENNE 126 

THE  NAUGHTY  DOLL 128 

THE  PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE 131 

TEENY-WEENY 134 

TELKA 137 

PLAINT  OF  A  MISSOURI  'COON 146 

ARMENIAN  LULLABY 151 

THE  PARTRIDGE 153 

CORINTHIAN  HALL 156 

THE  RED,  RED  WEST 162 

THE  THREE  KINGS  OF  COLOGNE 165 

IPSWICH 167 

BILL'S  TENOR  AND  MY  BASS 170 

FIDUCIT  (from  the  German) 175 


THE   VERSE  IN  THIS  SECOND  BOOK.  ix 

PAGE 

THE  "  ST.  Jo  GAZETTE  " 177 

IN  AMSTERDAM 183 

To  THE  PASSING  SAINT 186 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST 188 

NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT  (Slumber  Song)     ....  191 

THE  ONION  TART 193 

GRANDMA'S  BOMBAZINE       197 

RARE  ROAST  BEEF 203 

GANDERFEATHER'S  GIFT 208 

OLD  TIMES,  OLD  FRIENDS,  OLD  LOVE 211 

OUR  WHIPPINGS 213 

BION'S  SONG  OF  EROS 218 

MR.  BILLINGS  OF  LOUISVILLE 220 

POET  AND  KING 222 

LYDIA  Die 225,— 

LIZZIE 229 

LITTLE  HOMER'S  SLATE 231 

ALWAYS  RIGHT 233 

"TROT,  MY  GOOD  STEED"  (Volkslied) 235 

PROVIDENCE  AND  THE  DOG 237 

GETTIN*  ON 242 

THE   SCHNELLEST   ZuG 245 

BETHLEHEM-TOWN 250 

THE  PEACE  OF  CHRISTMAS-TIME 252 

DOINGS  OF  DELSARTE 254 

BUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT 259 


OP   TR 


I3oo6  of 


FATHER'S   WAY. 

TV/TY   father  was   no   pessimist;    he   loved   the 

things  of  earth, — 
Its  cheerfulness  and  sunshine,  its  music  and  its 

mirth. 
He    never   sighed    or   moped    around   whenever 

things  went  wrong,  — 
I  warrant   me  he  'd   mocked  at  fate  with  some 

defiant  song; 
But,  being  he  warn't  much  on  tune,  when  times 

looked  sort  o*  blue, 
He  'd  whistle  softly  to  himself  this  only  tune  he 

knew,  — 


FATHER'S   WAY, 


Now  mother,  when  she  heard  that  tune  which 
father  whistled  so, 

Would  say,  "There  's  something  wrong  to-day 
with  Ephraim,  I  know; 

He  never  tries  to  make  believe  he  's  happy  that 
'ere  way 

But  that  I  'm  certain  as  can  be  there  's  some- 
thin'  wrong  to  pay." 

And  so  betimes,  quite  natural-like,  to  us  observant 
youth 

There  seemed  suggestion  in  that  tune  of  deep, 
pathetic  truth. 

When  Brother  William  joined  the  war,  a  lot  of 

us  went  down 
To  see  the  gallant  soldier  boys  right  gayly  out  of 

town. 
A-comin'  home,  poor  mother  cried  as  if  her  heart 

would  break, 
And  all  us  children,  too,  —  for  hers,  and  not  for 

William's  sake  ! 
But  father,  trudgin'  on  ahead,  his  hands   behind 

him  so, 
Kept  whistlin'  to  himself,  so  sort  of  solemn-like 

and  low. 


FATHER'S   WAY. 


And  when  my  oldest  sister,  Sue,  was  married  and 

went  West, 
Seemed  like  it  took  the  tuck  right  out  of  mother 

and  the  rest. 
She  was  the  sunlight  in  our  home,  —  why,  father 

used  to  say 
It  wouldn't  seem  like  home  at  all  if  Sue  should 

go  away; 
But  when  she  went,  a-leavin'  us   all  sorrer  and 

all  tears, 
Poor   father  whistled   lonesome-like  —  and   went 

to  feed  the  steers. 

When  crops  were  bad,  and  other  ills   befell  our 

homely  lot, 
He  'd  set  of  nights  and  try  to  act  as  if  he  minded 

not; 
And  when  came  death  and  bore  away  the  one 

he  worshipped  so, 
How  vainly  did  his  lips  belie  the  heart  benumbed 

with  woe  ! 
You  see  the  telltale  whistle   told  a  mood   he  'd 

not  admit, — 
He'd    always    stopped    his    whistlin'    when    he 

thought  we  noticed  it. 


FATHERS   WAY. 


I  'd  like  to  see  that  stooping  form  and  hoary 
head  again, — 

To  see  the  honest,  hearty  smile  that  cheered  his 
fellow-men. 

Oh,  could  I  kiss  the  kindly  lips  that  spake  no 
creature  wrong, 

And  share  the  rapture  of  the  heart  that  over- 
flowed with  song  ! 

Oh,  could  I  hear  the  little  tune  he  whistled  long 
ago, 

When  he  did  battle  with  the  griefs  he  would  not 
have  us  know ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 


TO   MY   MOTHER. 

TTOW  fair  you  are,  my  mother ! 
Ah,  though  't  is  many  a  year 

Since  you  were  here, 
Still  do  I  see  your  beauteous  face, 

And  with  the  glow 
Of  your  dark  eyes  cometh  a  grace 

Of  long  ago. 
So  gentle,  too,  my  mother ! 

Just  as  of  old,  upon  my  brow, 

Like  benedictions  now, 
Falleth  your  dear  hand's  touch ; 

And  still,  as  then, 
A  voice  that  glads  me  over-much 

Cometh  again, 

My  fair  and  gentle  mother ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 


How  you  have  loved  me,  mother, 

I  have  not  power  to  tell, 

Knowing  full  well 
That  even  in  the  rest  above 

It  is  your  will 
To  watch  and  guard  me  with  your  love, 

Loving  me  still. 
And,  as  of  old,  my  mother, 

I  am  content  to  be  a  child, 

By  mother's  love  beguiled 
From  all  these  other  charms; 

So  to  the  last 
Within  thy  dear,  protecting  arms 

Hold  thou  me  fast, 

My  guardian  angel,  mother ! 


-If* 


IFO 


KORNER'S  BATTLE  PRAYER. 


KORNER'S  BATTLE    PRAYER. 

TETHER,  I  cry  to  Thee  ! 

Round  me  the   billows  of  battle   are 

pouring, 

Round  me  the  thunders  of  battle  are  roaring; 
Father  on  high,  hear  Thou  my  cry,  — 
Father,  oh,  lead  Thou  me  ! 

Father,  oh,  lead  Thou  me  ! 

Lead  me,  o'er  Death  and  its  terrors  victorious,  — 
See,  I  acknowledge  Thy  will  as  all-glorious ; 
Point  Thou  the  way,  lead  where  it  may,  — 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee  ! 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee ! 

As  when  the  dead  leaves  of  autumn  whirl  round  me, 
So,  when  the  horrors  of  war  would  confound  me, 
Laugh  I  at  fear,  knowing  Thee  near,  — 

Father,  oh,  bless  Thou  me  ! 


8  KORNEFS  BATTLE  PRAYER. 

Father,  oh,  bless  Thou  me  ! 
Living  or  dying,  waking  or  sleeping, 
Such  as  I  am,  I  commit  to  Thy  keeping : 
Frail  though  I  be,  Lord,  bless  Thou  me ! 

Father,  I  worship  Thee  ! 

Father,  I  worship  Thee  ! 
Not  for  the  love  of  the  riches  that  perish, 
But  for  the  freedom  and  justice  we  cherish, 
Stand  we  or  fall,  blessing  Thee,  all  — 

God,  I  submit  to  Thee  ! 

God,  I  submit  to  Thee  ! 

Yea,  though  the  terrors  of  Death  pass  before  me, 
Yea,  with  the  darkness  of  Death  stealing  o'er  me, 
Lord,  unto  Thee  bend  I  the  knee,  — 

Father,  I  cry  to  Thee  ! 


GOSLING  STEW.  9 


GOSLING  STEW. 

TN  Oberhausen,  on  a  time, 

I  fared  as  might  a  king; 
And  now  I  feel  the  muse  sublime 
Inspire  me  to  embalm  in  rhyme 
That  succulent  and  sapid  thing 
Behight  of  gentile  and  of  Jew 
A  gosling  stew ! 

The  good  Herr  Schmitz  brought  out  his 

best,  — 

Soup,  cutlet,  salad,  roast,  — 
And  I  partook  with  hearty  zest, 
And  fervently  anon  I  blessed 

That  generous  and  benignant  host, 
When  suddenly  dawned  on  my  view 
A  gosling  stew ! 


10  GOSLING  STEW. 

I  sniffed  it  coming  on  apace, 

And  as  its  odors  filled 
The  curious  little  dining-place, 
I  felt  a  glow  suffuse  my  face, 

I  felt  my  very  marrow  thrilled 
With  rapture  altogether  new, — 
'T  was  gosling  stew  ! 

These  callow  birds  had  never  played 

In  yonder  village  pond; 
Had  never  through  the  gateway  strayed, 
And  plaintive  spissant  music  made 

Upon  the  grassy  green  beyond : 
Cooped  up,  they  simply  ate  and  grew 
For  gosling  stew ! 

My  doctor  said  I  mustn't  eat 
High  food  and  seasoned  game; 

But  surely  gosling  is  a  meat 

With  tender  nourishment  replete. 
Leastwise  I  gayly  ate  this  same; 

I  braved  dyspepsy  —  wouldn't  you 
For  gosling  stew? 


GOSLING  STEW.  11 

I  've  feasted  where  the  possums  grow, 

Roast  turkey  have  I  tried, 
The  joys  of  canvasbacks  I  know, 
And  frequently  I  've  eaten  crow 

In  bleak  and  chill  Novembertide ; 
I'd  barter  all  that  native  crew 
For  gosling  stew ! 

And  when  from  Rhineland  I  adjourn 

To  seek  my  Yankee  shore, 
Back  shall  my  memory  often  turn, 
And  fiercely  shall  my  palate  burn 

For  sweets  I  '11  taste,  alas  !  no  more,  — 
Oh,  that  mein  kleine  frau  could  brew 
A  gosling  stew ! 

Vain  are  these  keen  regrets  of  mine, 

And  vain  the  song  I  sing; 
Yet  would  I  quaff  a  stoup  of  wine 
To  Oberhausen  auf  der  Rhine, 

Where  fared  I  like  a  very  king: 
And  here  's  a  last  and  fond  adieu 
To  gosling  stew ! 


12  CATULLUS   TO  LESBIA. 


CATULLUS  TO   LESBIA. 


,  my  Lesbia,  no  repining; 
Let  us  love  while  yet  we  may  ! 
Suns  go  on  forever  shining; 

But  when  we  have  had  our  day, 
Sleep  perpetual  shall  overtake  us, 
And  no  morrow's  dawn  awake  us. 

Come,  in  yonder  nook  reclining, 

Where  the  honeysuckle  climbs, 
Let  us  mock  at  Fate's  designing, 

Let  us  kiss  a  thousand  times  ! 
And  if  they  shall  prove  too  few,  dear, 
When  they  're  kissed  we  '11  start  anew,  dear  ! 

And  should  any  chance  to  see  us, 
Goodness  !    how  they  '11  agonize  ! 

How  they  '11  wish  that  they  could  be  us, 
Kissing  in  such  liberal  wise  ! 

Never  mind  their  envious  whining; 

Come,  my  Lesbia,  no  repining  ! 


JOHN  SMITH.  13 


JOHN   SMITH. 

T^O-DAY    I    strayed     in    Charing     Cross,    as 

wretched  as  could  be, 
With   thinking  of  my  home   and   friends   across 

the  tumbling  sea; 
There  was  no  water  in  my  eyes,  but  my  spirits 

were  depressed, 
And  my  heart  lay  like  a  sodden,  soggy  doughnut 

in  my  breast. 
This  way  and  that  streamed  multitudes,  that  gayly 

passed  me  by; 
Not  one  in  all  the   crowd   knew  me,  and   not  a 

one  knew  I. 
"  Oh  for  a  touch  of  home  !  "  I  sighed ;    "  oh  for 

a  friendly  face  ! 
Oh  for  a  hearty  hand-clasp  in  this  teeming,  desert 

place  ! " 


14  JOHN  SMITH. 


And    so    soliloquizing,    as    a    homesick    creature 

will, 
Incontinent,  I  wandered  down  the  noisy,  bustling 

hill, 
And    drifted,   automatic-like    and    vaguely,    into 

Lowe's, 
Where  Fortune  had  in  store  a  panacea  for  my 

woes. 
The  register  was  open,  and  there  dawned  upon 

my  sight 
A  name  that  filled  and  thrilled  me  with  a  cyclone 

of  delight, — 
The  name   that  I  shall  venerate   unto   my  dying 

day,— 
The   proud,  immortal   signature :     "  John   Smith, 

U.  S.  A." 

Wildly  I  clutched  the  register,  and  brooded  on 

that  name; 
I  knew  John  Smith,  yet  could   not  well   identify 

the  same. 
I  knew  him  North,  I  knew  him  South,  I  knew  him 

East  and  West; 


JOHN  SMITH.  15 


I  knew  him  all  so  well  I  knew  not  which  I  knew 

the  best. 
His  eyes,  I  recollect,  were  gray,  and  black,  and 

brown,  and  blue ; 
And   when  he   was    not   bald,   his    hair  was   of 

chameleon  hue ; 
Lean,  fat,   tall,   short,   rich,  poor,  grave,  gay,   a 

blonde,  and  a  brunette, — 
Aha,  amid   this   London   fog,  John  Smith,  I  see 

you  yet ! 
I  see  you  yet ;  and  yet  the  sight  is  all  so  blurred 

I  seem 

To  see  you  in  composite,  or  as  in  a  waking  dream. 
Which  are  you,  John?     I  'd  like  to  know,  that  I 

might  weave  a  rhyme 
Appropriate  to  your  character,  your  politics,  and 

clime. 
So   tell   me,  were   you   "raised"   or   "reared"? 

your  pedigree  confess 
In  some  such  treacherous  ism  as  "  I  reckon  "  or 

"I  guess." 

Let  fall  your  telltale  dialect,  that  instantly  I  may 
Identify  my  countryman,  "John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 


16  JOHN  SMITH. 


It  's  like  as  not  you  air  the  John  that  lived  a 
spell  ago 

Deown  East,  where  codfish,  beans,  'nd  bona-fide 
schoolma'ams  grow; 

^here  the  dear  old  homestead  nestles  like  among 
the  Hampshire  hills, 

And  where  the  robin  hops  about  the  cherry- 
boughs,  'nd  trills; 

Where  Hubbard  squash  'nd  huckleberries  grow  to 
powerful  size, 

And  everything  is  orthodox  from  preachers  down 
to  pies; 

Where  the  red-wing  blackbirds  swing  'nd  call  be- 
side the  pickril  pond, 

And  the  crows  air  cawin'  in  the  pines  uv  the 
pasture  lot  beyond; 

Where  folks  complain  uv  bein'  poor,  because  their 
money's  lent 

Out  West  on  farms  'nd  railroads  at  the  rate  uv 
ten  per  cent; 

Where  we  ust  to  spark  the  Baker  girls  a-comin' 
home  from  choir, 

Or  a-settin'  namin'  apples  round  the  roarm.' 
kitchen  fire ; 


JOHN  SMITH.  17 


Where  we   had   to   go   to   meetin'  at  least  three 

times  a  week, 
And   our   mothers   learnt    us   good   religious  Dr. 

Watts  to  speak; 
And   where   our   grandmas    sleep   their   sleep  — 

God  rest  their  souls,  I  say; 
And  God  bless  yours,  ef  you  're  that  John,  "  John 

Smith,  U.  S.  A." 

Or,  mebbe,  Col.  Smith,  yo'  are  the  gentleman  I 

know 
In   the   country  whar  the   finest   Democrats  'nd 

hosses  grow; 
Whar  the   ladies   are   all   beautiful,  an'  whar  the 

crap  of  cawn 

Is  utilized  for  Burbon,  and  true  awters  are  bawn. 
You  've  ren  for  jedge,  and  killed  yore  man,  and 

bet  on  Proctor  Knott; 
Yore  heart  is  full   of  chivalry,  yore   skin   is   full 

of  shot; 

And  I  disremember  whar  I  've  met  with  gentle- 
men so  true 
As  yo'  all   in   Kaintucky,  whar  blood   an'    grass 

are  blue, 


18  JOHN  SMITH. 


Whar  a  niggah  with  a  ballot  is   the   signal  fo'  a 

fight, 

Whar  the  yaller  dawg  pursues  the  coon  through- 
out the  bammy  night, 
Whar  blooms  the  furtive  possum,  —  pride  an'  glory 

of  the  South  ! 
And    anty    makes   a   hoe-cake,   sah,   that    melts 

within  yo'  mouth, 
Whar  all  night  long   the   mockin' -birds   are  war- 

blin'  in  the  trees, 
And  black- eyed  Susans  nod  and    blink   at   every 

passing  breeze, 
Whar  in  a  hallowed  soil  repose  the  ashes  of  our 

day,— 
H'yar  's  lookin'  at  yo',  Col.  "John  Smith,  U.  S.  A." 

Or  wuz  you  that  John  Smith  I  knew  out  yonder 

in  the  West,— 
That   part  of  our  Republic  I  shall   always   love 

the  best ! 
Wuz  you  him  that  went  prospectin'  in  the  spring 

of  '69 
In  the  Red  Hoss  Mountain  country  for  the  Gosh- 

all-Hemlock  mine? 


JOHN  SMITH.  19 


Oh,  how  I  'd  liked  to  clasped  your  hand,  an'  set 

down  by  your  side, 
And  talked  about  the  good  old  days  beyond  the 

Big  Divide, — 
Of  the  rackaboar,  the  snaix,  the  bear,  the  Rocky 

Mountain  goat, 
Of  the  conversazzhyony,  'nd   of  Casey's   tabble- 

dote, 
And  a  word  of  them  old  pardners  that  stood  by 

us  long  ago, — 
Three-fingered  Hoover,  Sorry   Tom,  and   Parson 

Jim,  you  know ! 
Old  times,  old  friends,  John  Smith,  would  make 

our  hearts  beat  high  again, 
And  we  'd  see  the   snow-top   mountains   like  we 

used  to  see  'em  then ; 
The    magpies   would    go    flutterin'    like    strange 

sperrits  to  'nd  fro, 
And  we  'd  hear  the  pines  a-singin'  in  the  ragged 

gulch  below; 
And   the  mountain  brook  would  loiter  like  upon 

its  windin'  way, 
Ez  if  it  waited  for  a  child  to  jine  it  in  its  play. 


20  JOHN  SMITH. 


You  see,  John  Smith,  just  which  you  are  I  cannot 

well  recall; 
And,  really,  I  am  pleased  to  think  you  somehow 

must  be  all ! 
For  when  a  man  sojourns  abroad  awhile,  as  I  have 

done, 
He  likes  to  think  of  all  the  folks  he  left  at  home 

as  one. 
And   so  they  are,  —  for  well  you  know  there  's 

nothing  in  a  name; 
Our   Browns,  our  Joneses,   and   our  Smiths   are 

happily  the  same, — 

All  represent  the  spirit  of  the  land  across  the  sea ; 
All  stand  for  one  high  purpose  in  our  country  of 

the  free. 
Whether  John   Smith    be   from    the   South,   the 

North,  the  West,  the  East, 
So  long  as  he  's  American,  it  mattereth  not  the 

least ; 
Whether  his   crest    be    badger,   bear,   palmetto, 

sword,  or  pine, 
His  is  the  glory  of  the  stars  that  with  the  stripes 

combine. 


JOHN  SMITH.  21 


Where'er  he  be,  whate'er  his  lot,  he  's  eager  to 

be  known, 
Not   by   his   mortal   name,  but   by  his   country's 

name  alone; 
And  so,  compatriot,  I  am  proud  you  wrote  your 

name  to-day 
Upon    the    register    at    Lowe's,    "John    Smith, 

U.  S.  A." 


22  ST.   MARTIN'S  LANE. 


ST.  MARTIN'S   LANE. 

CT.  MARTIN'S  LANE  winds  up  the  hill, 

And  trends  a  devious  way; 
I  walk  therein  amid  the  din 

Of  busy  London  day : 
I  walk  where  wealth  and  squalor  meet, 

And  think  upon  a  time 
When  others  trod  this  saintly  sod, 

And  heard  St.  Martin's  chime. 

But  when  those  solemn  bells  invoke 

The  midnight's  slumbrous  grace, 
The  ghosts  of  men  come  back  again 

To  haunt  that  curious  place : 
The  ghosts  of  sages,  poets,  wits, 

Come  back  in  goodly  train; 
And  all  night  long,  with  mirth  and  song, 

They  walk  St.  Martin's  Lane. 


ST.  MAX  TIN'S  LANE. 


There  's  Jerrold  paired  with  Thackeray, 

Maginn  and  Thomas  Moore, 
And  here  and  there  and  everywhere 

Fraserians  by  the  score; 
And  one  wee  ghost  that  climbs  the  hill 

Is  welcomed  with  a  shout,  — 
No  king  could  be  revered  as  he,  — 

The  padre,  Father  Prout  ! 

They  banter  up  and  down  the  street, 

And  clamor  at  the  door 
Of  yonder  inn,  which  once  has  been 

The  scene  of  mirth  galore  : 
'T  is  now  a  lonely,  musty  shell, 

Deserted,  like  to  fall  ; 
And  Echo  mocks  their  ghostly  knocks, 

And  iterates  their  call. 

Come  back,  thou  ghost  of  ruddy  host, 

From  Pluto's  misty  shore  ; 
Renew  to-night  the  keen  delight 

Of  by-gone  years  once  more  ; 


24  -ST.  MARTIN'S  LANE. 

Brew  for  this  merry,  motley  horde, 
And  serve  the  steaming  cheer; 

And  grant  that  I  may  lurk  hard  by, 
To  see  the  mirth,  and  hear. 

Ah,  me  !   I  dream  what  things  may  seem 

To  others  childish  vain, 
And  yet  at  night  'tis  my  delight 

To  walk  St.  Martin's  Lane  ; 
For,  in  the  light  of  other  days, 

I  walk  with  those  I  love, 
And  all  the  time  St.  Martin's  chime 

Makes  piteous  moan  above. 


THE  SINGING  IN  GOD'S  ACRE.  25 


THE   SINGING  IN   GOD'S  ACRE. 

/^VUT  yonder  in  the  moonlight,  wherein  God's 

Acre  lies, 
Go    angels   walking    to    and    fro,   singing    their 

lullabies. 
Their  radiant  wings  are  folded,  and  their  eyes  are 

bended  low, 
As  they  sing  among  the  beds  whereon  the  flowers 

delight  to  grow, — 


"  Sleep,  oh,  sleep  ! 

The  Shepherd  guardeth  His  sheep. 
Fast  speedeth  the  night  away, 
Soon  cometh  the  glorious  day; 
Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may,  — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep  1 " 


26  THE  SINGING  IN  GOD'S  ACRE. 

The  flowers  within  God's  Acre  see  that  fair  and 
wondrous  sight, 

And  hear  the  angels  singing  to  the  sleepers 
through  the  night; 

And,  lo  !  throughout  the  hours  of  day  those  gentle 
flowers  prolong 

The  music  of  the  angels  in  that  tender  slumber- 
song,  — 

«  Sleep,  oh,  sleep  ! 

The  Shepherd  loveth  His  sheep. 
He  that  guardeth  His  flock  the  best 
Hath  folded  them  to  His  loving  breast; 
So  sleep  ye  now,  and  take  your  rest,  — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep  !  " 

From   angel    and    from    flower  the    years   have 

learned  that  soothing  song, 
And  with  its  heavenly  music  speed  the  days  and 

nights  along; 
So  through  all  time,  whose  flight  the  Shepherd's 

vigils  glorify, 
God's  Acre  slumbereth  in  the  grace  of  that  sweet 

lullaby,  — 


THE  SINGING  IN  GOD'S  ACRE.  27 

"  Sleep,  oh,  sleep  ! 

The  Shepherd  loveth  His  sheep. 
Fast  speedeth  the  night  away, 
Soon  cometh  the  glorious  day; 
Sleep,  weary  ones,  while  ye  may,  — 

Sleep,  oh,  sleep  !  " 


28  DEAR  OLD  LONDON. 


DEAR   OLD   LONDON. 

VXTHEN   I  was   broke   in   London  in  the  fall 

of  '89, 

I  chanced  to  spy  in  Oxford  Street  this  tantaliz- 
ing sign, — 
"A   Splendid    Horace    cheap    for   Cash!"      Of 

course  I  had  to  look 
Upon  the  vaunted   bargain,  and  it  was   a   noble 

book! 
A  finer  one  I  Ve  never  seen,  nor  can  I  hope  to 

see,— 
The  first  edition,  richly  bound,  and  clean  as  clean 

can  be ; 
And,  just  to  think,  for  three-pounds-ten  I  might 

have  had  that  Pine, 
When    I    was    broke    in    London    in    the    fall 

of  '89! 


DEAR  OLD  LONDON.  29 

Down  at  Noseda's,  in  the   Strand,  I  found,  one 

fateful  day, 

A  portrait  that  I  pined  for  as  only  maniac  may,  — 
A  print  of  Madame  Vestris  (she  nourished  years 

ago, 
Was   Bartolozzi's  daughter   and   a   thoroughbred, 

you  know). 
A  clean  and  handsome  print   it  was,  and   cheap 

at  thirty  bob,  — 
That 's  what  I  told  the  salesman,  as  I  choked  a 

rising  sob; 
But  I  hung  around   Noseda's   as   it  were  a  holy 

shrine, 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

At  Davey's,  in  Great  Russell  Street,  were  auto- 
graphs galore, 

And  Mr.  Davey  used  to  let  me  con  that  precious 
store. 

Sometimes  1  read  what  warriors  wrote,  sometimes 
a  king's  command, 

But  oftener  still  a  poet's  verse,  writ  in  a  meagre 
hand. 


30  DEAR  OLD  LONDON. 

Lamb,  Byron,  Addison,  and  Burns,  Pope,  Johnson, 

Swift,  and  Scott,  — 
It  needed  but  a  paltry  sum  to  comprehend   the 

lot; 
Yet,  though  Friend  Davey  marked  'em  down,  what 

could  I  but  decline? 
For  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

Of  antique  swords  and  spears  I  saw  a  vast   and 

dazzling  heap 
That  Curio  Fenton  offered  me  at  prices   passing 

cheap ; 

And,  oh,  the  quaint  old  bureaus,  and  the  warming- 
pans  of  brass, 
And  the  lovely  hideous  freaks  1  found  in  pewter 

and  in  glass  ! 
And,  oh,  the  sideboards,  candlesticks,  the  cracked 

old  china  plates, 
The    clocks    and   spoons   from   Amsterdam   that 

antedate  all  dates ! 
Of  such  superb  monstrosities  I  found  an  endless 

mine 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 


DEAR  OLD  LONDON. 


O  ye   that   hanker  after  boons   that   others  idle 

by,- 
The  battered  things  that  please  the  soul,  though 

they  may  vex  the  eye,  — 
The  silver  plate  and  crockery  all  sanctified  with 

grime, 
The   oaken    stuff    that   has   defied   the   tooth   of 

envious  Time, 
The  musty  tomes,  the   speckled   prints,  the  mil- 

dewed bills  of  play, 

And  other  costly  relics  of  malodorous  decay,  — 
Ye  only  can  appreciate  what  agony  was  mine 
When  I  was  broke  in  London  in  the  fall  of  '89. 

When,  in  the  course  of  natural  things,  I   go   to 

my  reward, 

Let  no  imposing  epitaph  my  martyrdoms  record  ; 
Neither  in  Hebrew,  Latin,  Greek,  nor  any  classic 

tongue, 
Let  my  ten  thousand  triumphs  over  human  griefs 

be  sung; 
But  in   plain  Anglo-Saxon  —  that   he   may  know 

who  seeks 


32  DEAR  OLD  LONDON. 


What   agonizing   pangs   I  Ve   had   while   on   the 

hunt  for  freaks  — 
Let  there  be  writ  upon  the  slab  that  marks   my 

grave  this  line : 
"Deceased  was    broke   in  London    in    the  fall 

of  '89." 


CORSICAN  LULLABY.  33 


CORSICAN    LULLABY. 

T)AMBINO  in  his  cradle  slept; 

And  by  his  side  his  grandam  grim 
Bent  down  and  smiled  upon  the  child, 
And  sung  this  lullaby  to  him,  — 
This  "  ninna  and  anninia  "  : 

"When  thou  art  older,  thou  shalt  mind 
To  traverse  countries  far  and  wide, 

And  thou  shalt  go  where  roses  blow 
And  balmy  waters  singing  glide  — 
So  ninna  and  anninia ! 

"  And  thou  shalt  wear,  trimmed  up  in  points, 
A  famous  jacket  edged  in  red, 

And,  more  than  that,  a  peaked  hat, 
All  decked  in  gold,  upon  thy  head  — 
Ah  !  ninna  and  anninia  ! 


34  CORSICAN  LULLABY. 

"Then  shalt  thou  carry  gun  and  knife, 
Nor  shall  the  soldiers  bully  thee; 

Perchance,  beset  by  wrong  or  debt, 
A  mighty  bandit  thou  shalt  be  — 
So  ninna  and  anninia ! 

"  No  woman  yet  of  our  proud  race 
Lived  to  her  fourteenth  year  unwed ; 

The  brazen  churl  that  eyed  a  girl 

Bought  her  the  ring  or  paid  his  head  — 
So  ninna  and  anninia ! 

"But  once  came  spies  (I  know  the  thieves  !) 
And  brought  disaster  to  our  race ; 

God  heard  us  when  our  fifteen  men 
Were  hanged  within  the  market-place  — 
But  ninna  and  anninia ! 

"  Good  men  they  were,  my  babe,  and  true,  — 
Right  worthy  fellows  all,  and  strong; 

Live  thou  and  be  for  them  and  me 
Avenger  of  that  deadly  wrong  — 
So  ninna  and  anninia  !  " 


THE  CLINK  OF   THE  ICE. 


35 


THE   CLINK   OF   THE   ICE. 


TVTOTABLY  fond  of  music,  I  dote  on  a  sweeter 

tone 
Than  ever  the  harp  has  uttered  or  ever  the  lute 

has  known. 

When  I  wake  at  five  in  the  morning  with  a  feel- 
ing in  my  head 
Suggestive  of  mild   excesses  before  I  retired  to 

bed; 
When  a  small  but  fierce  volcano  vexes  me  sore 

inside, 
And  my  throat  and  mouth  are  furred  with  a  fur 

that  seemeth  a  buffalo  hide, — 
How  gracious  those  dews  of  solace  that  over  my 

senses  fall 
At  the  clink  of  the   ice  in  the   pitcher  the   boy 

brings  up  the  hall ! 


36  THE  CLINK  OF   THE  ICE. 

Oh,  is  it  the  gaudy  ballet,  with  features  I  cannot 

name, 

That  kindles  in  virile   bosoms  that  slow  but  de- 
vouring flame? 
Or  is  it   the   midnight   supper,  eaten   before  we 

retire,  < 

That  presently  by  combustion  setteth  us  all  afire  ? 
Or   is   it   the   cheery   magnum  ?  —  nay,  I  '11   not 

chide  the  cup 
That  makes  the  meekest  mortal  anxious  to  whoop 

things  up : 
Yet,  what  the  cause  soever,  relief  comes  when  we 

call,- 
Relief   with    that    rapturous    clinkety- clink    that 

clinketh  alike  for  all. 

I  Ve  dreamt  of  the  fiery  furnace   that  was   one 

vast  bulk  of  flame, 
And   that  I  was  Abednego   a-wallowing   in   that 

same ; 
And  I  Ve  dreamt  I  was  a  crater,  possessed  of  a 

mad  desire 
To  vomit  molten  lava,  and  to  snort  big  gobs  of 

fire; 


THE  CLINK  OF   THE  ICE. 


I  've  dreamt  I  was  Roman  candles   and   rockets 

that  fizzed  and  screamed,  — 
In   short,  I    have   dreamt   the   cussedest   dreams 

that  ever  a  human  dreamed: 
But  all  the  red-hot  fancies  were  scattered   quick 

as  a  wink 
When  the  spirit  within  that  pitcher  went  clinking 

its  clinkety-clink. 

Boy,  why  so  slow  in  coming  with  that  gracious, 

saving  cup? 
Oh,  haste  thee  to  the  succor  of  the  man  who  is 

burning  up  ! 
See    how  the  ice   bobs  up  and  down,  as   if  it 

wildly  strove 
To  reach  its  grace  to  the  wretch  who  feels   like 

a  red-hot  kitchen  stove  ! 
The  piteous  clinks  it  clinks  methinks  should  thrill 

you  through  and  through  : 
An   erring   soul   is  wanting  drink,  and   he  wants 

it  p.  d.  q.  ! 
And,  lo  !  the  honest  pitcher,  too,  falls  in  so  dire 

a  fret 
That  its  pallid  form  is  presently  bedewed  with  a 

chilly  sweat. 


38  THE  CLINK  OF   THE  ICE. 

May  blessings  be  showered   upon   the   man  who 

first  devised  this  drink 
That  happens  along  at  five  A.  M.  with  its  rapturous 

clinkety-clink  ! 
I  never  have   felt   the   cooling  flood   go   sizzling 

down  my  throat 
But   what    I  vowed    to    hymn    a    hymn   to   that 

clinkety-clink  devote ; 
So  now,  in  the  prime  of  my  manhood,  I  polish 

this  lyric  gem 
For  the  uses  of  all  good  fellows  who  are  thirsty 

at  five  A.  M., 
But  specially  for  those  fellows  who   have   known 

the  pleasing  thrall 
Of  the  clink  of  the  ice  in  the   pitcher  the   boy 

brings  up  the  hall. 


THE  BELLS  OF  NOTRE  DAME.  39 


THE  BELLS  OF  NOTRE   DAME. 

A  X  THAT  though  the  radiant  thoroughfare 

Teems  with  a  noisy  throng  ? 
What  though  men  bandy  everywhere 

The  ribald  jest  and  song? 
Over  the  din  of  oaths  and  cries 

Broodeth  a  wondrous  calm, 
And  mid  that  solemn  stillness  rise 

The  bells  of  Notre  Dame. 

"  Heed  not,  dear  Lord,"  they  seem  to  say, 

"Thy  weak  and  erring  child; 
And  thou,  O  gentle  Mother,  pray 

That  God  be  reconciled; 
And  on  mankind,  O  Christ,  our  King, 

Pour  out  Thy  gracious  balm,"  — 
'T  is  thus  they  plead  and  thus  they  sing, 

Those  bells  of  Notre  Dame. 


40  THE  BELLS  OF  NOTRE  DAME. 

And  so,  methinks,  God,  bending  down 

To  ken  the  things  of  earth, 
Heeds  not  the  mockery  of  the  town 

Or  cries  of  ribald  mirth ; 
For  ever  soundeth  in  His  ears 

A  penitential  psalm, — 
T  is  thy  angelic  voice  He  hears, 

O  bells  of  Notre  Dame  ! 

Plead  on,  O  bells,  that  thy  sweet  voice 

May  still  forever  be 
An  intercession  to  rejoice 

Benign  divinity; 
And  that  thy  tuneful  grace  may  fall 

Like  dew,  a  quickening  balm, 
Upon  the  arid  hearts  of  all, 

O  bells  of  Notre  Dame ! 


LOVER'S  LANE,  SAINT  JO.  41 


LOVER'S   LANE,  SAINT  JO. 

CT  AINT  JO,  Buchanan  County, 

Is  leagues  and  leagues  away; 
And  I  sit  in  the  gloom  of  this  rented  room, 

And  pine  to  be  there  to-day. 
Yes,  with  London  fog  around  me 

And  the  bustling  to  and  fro, 
I  am  fretting  to  be  across  the  sea 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

I  would  have  a  brown-eyed  maiden 

Go  driving  once  again; 
And  I  'd  sing  the  song,  as  we  snailed  along, 

That  I  sung  to  that  maiden  then: 
I  purposely  say,  "as  we  snailed  along," 

For  a  proper  horse  goes  slow 
In  those  leafy  aisles,  where  Cupid  smiles, 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 


42  LOVERS  LANE,   SAINT  JO. 

From  her  boudoir  in  the  alders 

Would  peep  a  lynx-eyed  thrush, 
And  we  'd  hear  her  say,  in  a  furtive  way, 

To  the  noisy  cricket,  "Hush!" 
To  think  that  the  curious  creature 

Should  crane  her  neck  to  know 
The  various  things  one  says  and  sings 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo ! 

But  the  maples  they  should  shield  us 

From  the  gossips  of  the  place ; 
Nor  should  the  sun,  except  by  pun, 

Profane  the  maiden's  face; 
And  the  girl  should  do  the  driving, 

For  a  fellow  can't,  you  know, 
Unless  he  's  neglectful  of  what 's  quite  respectful 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

Ah  !  sweet  the  hours  of  springtime, 

When  the  heart  inclines  to  woo, 
And  it 's  deemed  all  right  for  the  callow  wight 

To  do  what  he  wants  to  do; 


LOVERS  LANE,  SAINT  JO.  43 

But  cruel  the  age  of  winter, 

When  the  way  of  the  world  says  no 

To  the  hoary  men  who  would  woo  again 
In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo  ! 

In  the  Union  Bank  of  London 

Are  forty  pounds  or  more, 
Which  I  'm  like  to  spend,  ere  the  month  shall  end, 

In  an  antiquarian  store; 
But  I  'd  give  it  all,  and  gladly, 

If  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  could  feel  the  grace  of  a  distant  place, — 

Of  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 

Let  us  sit  awhile,  beloved, 

And  dream  of  the  good  old  days,  — 
Of  the  kindly  shade  which  the  maples  made 

Round  the  stanch  but  squeaky  chaise; 
With  your  head  upon  my  shoulder, 

And  my  arm  about  you  so, 
Though  exiles,  we  shall  seem  to  be 

In  Lover's  Lane,  Saint  Jo. 


44  CRUMPETS  AND    TEA. 


CRUMPETS  AND  TEA. 

HTHERE  are  happenings  in  life  that  are  destined 

to  rise 

Like  dear,  hallowed  visions  before  a  man's  eyes ; 
And  the  passage  of  years  shall   not  dim   in   the 

least 

The  glory  and  joy  of  our  Sabbath-day  feast,  — 
The  Sabbath-day  luncheon   that  's   spread  for  us 

three,— 

My  worthy  companions,  Teresa  and  Leigh, 
And  me,  all  so  hungry  for  crumpets  and  tea. 

There  are  cynics  who  say  with  invidious  zest 
That  a  crumpet  's  a  thing  that  will  never  digest ; 
But  I  happen  to  know  that  a  crumpet  is   prime 
For  digestion,  if  only  you  give  it  its  time. 
Or  if,  by  a  chance,  it  should  not  quite  agree, 
Why,  who  would  begrudge  a  physician  his  fee 
For  plying  his  trade  upon  crumpets  and  tea? 


CRUMPETS  AND    TEA.  45 

To  toast  crumpets  quite  a  la  mode,  I  require 
A  proper  long  fork  and  a  proper  quick  fire ; 
And  when  they  are  browned,  without  further  ado, 
I   put   on   the    butter,   that    soaks   through   and 

through. 

And  meantime  Teresa,  directed  by  Leigh, 
Compounds   and   pours   out  a  rich   brew  for  us 

three ; 
And  so  we  sit  down  to  our  crumpets  —  and  tea. 

A  hand-organ  grinds  in  the  street  a  weird  bit,  — 
Confound  those  Italians  !    I  wish  they  would  quit 
Interrupting  our  feast  with  their  dolorous  airs, 
Suggestive  of  climbing  the  heavenly  stairs. 
(It 's  thoughts  of  the  future,  as  all  will  agree, 
That  we   fain  would   dismiss   from    our   bosoms 

when  we 
Sit  down  to  discussion  of  crumpets  and  tea !) 

The  Sabbath-day  luncheon  whereof  I  now  speak 
Quite  answers  its  purpose  the  rest  of  the  week; 
Yet  with  the  next  Sabbath  I  wait  for  the  bell 
Announcing  the  man  who   has  crumpets  to  sell; 


46  CRUMPETS  AND   TEA. 

Then  I  scuttle  downstairs  in  a  frenzy  of  glee, 
And  purchase  for  sixpence   enough  for  us  three, 
Who  hunger  and  hanker  for  crumpets  and  tea. 

But  soon  —  ah  !  too  soon  —  I  must  bid  a  farewell 
To  joys  that  succeed  to  the  sound  of  that   bell, 
Must  hie  me  away  from  the  dank,  foggy  shore 
That 's  filled   me  with  colic   and  —  yearnings  for 

more ! 
Then  the  cruel,  the  heartless,  the  conscienceless 

sea 

Shall  bear  me  afar  from  Teresa  and  Leigh 
And  the  other  twin  friendships  of  crumpets  and 

tea. 

Yet  often,  ay,  ever,  before  my  wan  eyes 
That  Sabbath-day  luncheon  of  old  shall  arise. 
My    stomach,    perhaps,    shall    improve    by    the 

change, 

Since  crumpets  it  seems  to  prefer  at  long  range ; 
But,  oh,  how  my  palate  will  hanker  to  be 
In  London  again  with  Teresa  and  Leigh, 
Enjoying  the  rapture  of  crumpets  and  tea ! 


AN  IMITATION  OF  DR.    WATTS.  47 


AN   IMITATION   OF  DR.  WATTS. 

HTHROUGH  all  my  life  the  poor  shall  find 

In  me  a  constant  friend ; 
And  on  the  meek  of  every  kind 
My  mercy  shall  attend. 

The  dumb  shall  never  call  on  me 

In  vain  for  kindly  aid ; 
And  in  my  hands  the  blind  shall  see 

A  bounteous  alms  displayed. 

In  all  their  walks  the  lame  shall  know 

And  feel  my  goodness  near; 
And  on  the  deaf  will  I  bestow 

My  gentlest  words  of  cheer. 

'T  is  by  such  pious  works  as  these, 

Which  I  delight  to  do, 
That  men  their  fellow- creatures  please, 

And  please  their  Maker  too. 


48  INTRY-MINTRY. 


INTRY-MINTRY. 

TX  71LLIE  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May,— 

Once  as  these  children  were  hard  at  play, 
An  old  man,  hoary  and  tottering,  came 
And  watched  them  playing  their  pretty  game. 
He  seemed  to  wonder,  while  standing  there, 

What  the  meaning  thereof  could  be. 
Aha,  but  the  old  man  yearned  to  share 
Of  the  little  children's  innocent  glee, 
As  they  circled  around  with  laugh  and  shout, 
And  told  this  rhyme  at  counting  out : 
"  Intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 
Apple-seed  and  apple-thorn, 
Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 
Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 
Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 
Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest." 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May, — 
Ah,  the  mirth  of  that  summer  day  ! 


INTRY-MINTRY.  49 

'Twas  Father  Time  who  had  come  to  share 
The  innocent  joy  of  those  children  there. 
He  learned  betimes  the  game  they  played, 

And  into  their  sport  with  them  went  he, — 
How  could  the  children  have  been  afraid, 

Since  little  they  recked  who  he  might  be? 
They  laughed  to  hear  old  Father  Time 
Mumbling  that  curious  nonsense  rhyme 
Of  intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 
Apple-seed  and  apple-thorn, 
Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 
Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 
Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 
Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest. 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May, 
And  joy  of  summer,  —  where  are  they? 
The  grim  old  man  still  standeth  near, 
Crooning  the  song  of  a  far-off  year ; 
And  into  the  winter  I  come  alone, 

Cheered  by  that  mournful  requiem, 
Soothed  by  the  dolorous  monotone 

That  shall  count  me  off  as  it  counted  them, — 
4 


50  INTRY-MINTRY. 

The  solemn  voice  of  old  Father  Time, 

Chanting  the  homely  nursery  rhyme 

He  learned  of  the  children  a  summer  morn, 
When,  with  "  apple-seed  and  apple-thorn," 
Life  was  full  of  the  dulcet  cheer 
That  bringeth  the  grace  of  heaven  anear : 
The  sound  of  the  little  ones  hard  at  play,  — 
Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May. 


MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL.  5 1 


MODJESKY  AS   CAMEEL. 

A  FORE  we  went  to  Denver  we  had  heerd  the 

Tabor  Grand, 

Allowed  by  critics  ez  the  finest  opry  in  the  land ; 
And,  roundin'  up  at  Denver  in  the  fall  of  '81, 
Well  heeled  in  p'int  uv  looker  'nd   a-pinin'  for 

some  fun, 
We    told    Bill    Bush   that    we   wuz    fixed    quite 

comf  table  for  wealth, 
And  hadn't  struck  that  altitood  entirely  for  our 

health. 
You  see  we  knew  Bill  Bush  at  Central  City  years 

ago; 
(An'  a  whiter  man  than  that  same  Bill  you  could 

not  wish  to  know !) 
Bill  run  the  Grand  for  Tabor,  'nd  he  gin  us  two 

a  deal 
Ez  how  we  really  otter  see  Modjesky  ez  Cameel. 


52  MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL. 

Three-Fingered   Hoover  stated   that   he  'd   great 

deal  ruther  go 
To   call    on   Charley   Sampson    than   frequent   a 

opry  show. 
"The  queen  uv  tradegy,"  sez  he,  "is  wot  I  've 

never  seerl, 
And   I   reckon   there   is   more   for   me  in   some 

other  kind  uv  queen." 
"  Git  out !  "   sez  Bill,  disgusted-like,  "  and   can't 

you  never  find 
A  pleasure  in   the   things  uv  life  wich  ellervates 

the  mind? 
You  Ve  set  around   in  Casey's   restawraw  a  year 

or  more, 
An'  heerd  oF  Vere  de  Blaw  perform  shef  doovers 

by  the  score, 
Only  to  come  down  here  among  us  tong  an'  say 

you  feel 
You  'd    ruther  take    in    faro    than  a  opry  like 

<  Cameel ' !  " 

But  it  seems  it  wurn't  no  opry,  but  a  sort  uv 

foreign  play, 
With  a  heap  uv  talk  an'  dressin'  that  wuz   both 


MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL.  53 

A  young  chap  sparks  a  gal,  who  's  caught  a  dook 

that  's  old  an'  wealthy, — 
She  has  a  cold  'nd  faintin'  fits,  and   is   gin'rally 

onhealthy. 
She  says  she  has  a  record;   but  the  young  chap 

does  n't  mind, 
And  it  looks  ez  if  the  feller  wuz  a  proper  likely 

kind 
Until  his  old   man   sneaks   around  'nd   makes   a 

dirty  break, 
And  the  young  one  plays   the   sucker  'nd   gives 

the  girl  the  shake. 
"Armo!   Armo!"  she  hollers;   but  he  flings  her 

on  the  floor, 
And  says  he  ainter  goin'  to  have  no   truck  with 

her  rio  more. 

At  that  Three-Fingered  Hoover  says,  "  I  '11  chip 
into  this  game, 

And  see  if  Red  Hoss  Mountain  cannot  recon- 
struct the  same. 

I  won't  set  by  an'  see  the  feelin's  uv  a  lady 
hurt,  — 

Gol  durn  a  critter,  anyhow,  that  does  a  woman 
dirt ! " 


54  MODJRSKY  AS  CAMEEL. 

He  riz  up  like  a  giant  in  that  little  painted  pen, 

And  stepped  upon  the  platform  with  the  women- 
folks 'nd  men; 

Across  the  trough  of  gaslights  he  bounded  like 
a  deer, 

An'  grabbed  Armo  an'  hove  him  through  the 
landscape  in  the  rear; 

And  then  we  seen  him  shed  his  hat  an'  rever- 
ently kneel, 

An'  put  his  strong  arms  tenderly  around  the  gal 
Cameel. 

A-standin'  in  his  stockin'  feet,  his  height  wuz  six 

foot  three, 
And  a  huskier  man  than  Hoover  wuz  you  could 

not  hope  to  see. 
He   downed   Lafe    Dawson   wrasslin' ;    and    one 

night  I  seen  him  lick 
Three  Cornish  miners  that  come  into  camp  from 

Roarin'  Crick 
To  clean  out  Casey's  restawraw  an'  do  the  town, 

they  said. 
He  could  whip  his  weight  in  wildcats,  an'  paint 

whole  townships  red, 


MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL.  55 

But  good  to  helpless  folks  and  weak,  —  a  brave 

and  manly  heart 
A  cyclone  could  n't   phase,  but   any  child    could 

rend  apart ; 
Jest  like  the  mountain  pine,  wich  dares  the  storm 

that  howls  along, 
But  rocks  the  winds  uv   summer-time,  an'  sings 

a  soothin'  song. 

"  Cameel,"  sez  he,  "  your  record  is  ag'in  you,  I  '11 

allow, 
But,   bein'    you  're   a   woman,  you  '11   git   justice 

anyhow ; 
So,  if  you  say  you  're  sorry,  and  intend  to  travel 

straight,  — 
Why,  never  mind  that  other  chap  with  which  you 

meant  to  mate, — 

I  '11  marry  you   myself,  and   take   you   back   to- 
morrow night 
To  the  camp  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  where  the 

boys  '11  treat  you  white, 
Where   Casey   runs  a  tabble  dote,  and  folks   are 

brave  'nd  true, 
Where  there  ain't  no   ancient   history  to   bother 

me  or  you, 


56  MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL. 

Where  there  ain't  no  law  but  honesty,  no  evi- 
dence but  facts, 

Where  between  the  verdick  and  the  rope  there 
ain't  no  onter  acts.1' 

I  wuz   mighty  proud   of  Hoover;   but   the  folks 

began  to  shout 
That   the   feller   was   intrudin',  and  would   some 

one  put  him  out. 
"Well,  no;    I  reckon  not,"  says  I,  or  words  to 

that  effect, 
Ez  I  perduced  a  argument  I  thought  they  might 

respect,  — 
A   long  an'    harnsome   weepon   I  'd  pre-empted 

when  I  come 
Out  West  (its   cartridges  wuz  big  an'  juicy  ez  a 

plum), 
Wich,  when  persented  properly,  wuz  very  apt  to 

sway 

The  popular  opinion  in  a  most  persuasive  way. 
"  Well,  no ;  I  reckon  not,"  says  I ;  but  I  did  n't 

say  no  more, 
Observin'    that    there    wuz    a    ginral    movement 

towards  the  door. 


MODJESKY  AS  CAMEEL.  5  7 

First   Dr.   Lemen   he   allowed   that   he   had   got 

to  go 
And  see  a  patient  he  jest  heerd  wuz  lyin'  very 

low; 
An'  Charlie  Toll  riz  up  an'  said  he  guessed  he  'd 

jine  the  Dock, 
An'  go  to  see  a  client   wich   wuz   waitin'  round 

the  block; 
John  Arkins   reckollected   he   had  interviews  to 

write, 
And  previous  engagements  hurried  Cooper  from 

our  sight; 
Cal  Cole  went  out  to  buy  a  hoss,  Fred  Skiff  and 

Belford  too; 
And  Stapleton  remembered  he  had  heaps  uv  work 

to  do. 
Somehow  or  other  every  one  wuz  full  of  business 

then; 
Leastwise,  they  all  vamoosed,  and  didn't  bother 

us  again. 

I  reckollect  that  Willard   Morse   an'  Bush   come 

runnin'  in, 
A-hollerin',  "  Oh,  wot  two  idiots  you  durned  fools 

have  been  !  " 


58  MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL. 

I  reckollect  that  they  allowed  we  'd  made  a  big 

mistake,  — 
They  otter  knowed  us   tenderfoots  wuz   sure   to 

make  a  break ! 
An',  while  Modjesky  stated  we  wuz  somewhat  off 

our  base, 
I  half  opined  she  liked  it,  by  the  look  upon  her 

face. 

I  reckollect  that  Hoover  regretted  he  done  wrong 
In  throwin'  that  there  actor  through  a  vista  ten 

miles  long. 
I  reckollect  we  all  shuck  hands,  and  ordered  vin 

frappay,  — 
And  I  never  shall  forget  the  head  I  had  on  me 

next  day ! 

I  have  n't  seen  Modjesky  since ;  I  'm  hopin'  to 
again. 

vShe  's  goin'  to  show  in  Denver  soon ;  I  '11  go  to 
see  her  then. 

An'  may  be  I  shall  speak  to  her,  wich  if  I  do 
't  will  be 

About  the  old  friend  restin'  by  the  mighty  West- 
ern sea, — 


MODJESKY  AS  CAM  EEL.  59 

A  simple   man,  perhaps,  but   good  ez   gold   and 

true  ez  steel; 
He  could  whip  his  weight   in  wildcats,  and   you 

never  heerd  him  squeal; 
Good  to  the  helpless  and  the  weak ;  a  brave  an' 

manly  heart 
A  cyclone  could  n't  phase,  but   any  child   could 

rend  apart; 
So  like  the  mountain  pine,  that  dares  the  storm 

wich  sweeps  along, 
But  rocks  the  winds  uv  summer-time,  an'  sings  a 

soothin'  song. 


60  TELLING   THE  BEES. 


TELLING  THE   BEES. 

/^VUT  of  the  house  where  the  slumberer  lay 

Grandfather  came  one  summer  day, 
And  under  the  pleasant  orchard  trees 
He  spake  this  wise  to  the  murmuring  bees : 
"The  clover-bloom  that  kissed  her  feet 

And  the  posie-bed  where  she  used  to  play 
Have  honey  store,  but  none  so  sweet 

As  ere  our  little  one  went  away. 
O  bees,  sing  soft,  and,  bees,  sing  low ; 
For  she  is  gone  who  loved  you  so." 

A  wonder  fell  on  the  listening  bees 
Under  those  pleasant  orchard  trees, 
And  in  their  toil  that  summer  day 
Ever  their  murmuring  seemed  to  say: 


TELLING   THE  BEES.  61 

"  Child,  O  child,  the  grass  is  cool, 

And  the  posies  are  waking  to  hear  the  song 
Of  the  bird  that  swings  by  the  shaded  pool, 

Waiting  for  one  that  tarrieth  long." 
'T  was  so  they  called  to  the  little  one  then, 
As  if  to  call  her  back  again. 

O  gentle  bees,  I  have  come  to  say 

That  grandfather  fell  asleep  to-day, 

And  we  know  by  the  smile  on  grandfather's  face 

He  has  found  his  dear  one's  biding-place. 

So,  bees,  sing  soft,  and,  bees,  sing  low, 
As  over  the  honey-fields  you  sweep,— 

To  the  trees  abloom  and  the  flowers  ablow 

Sing  of  grandfather  fast  asleep  ; 
And  ever  beneath  these  orchard  trees 
Find  cheer  and  shelter,  gentle  bees. 


62  THE   TEA-GOWN. 


THE   TEA-GOWN. 

1V/TY  lady  has  a  tea-gown 

That  is  wondrous  fair  to  see, — 
It  is  flounced  and  ruffed  and  plaited  and  puffed, 

As  a  tea-gown  ought  to  be ; 
And  I  thought  she  must  be  jesting 

Last  night  at  supper  when 
She    remarked,   by  chance,   that   it    came   from 

France, 
And  had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 

Had  she  told  me  fifty  shillings, 

I  might  (and  would  n't  you?) 
Have    referred    to    that    dress    in    a  way   folks 
express 

By  an  eloquent  dash  or  two; 
But  the  guileful  little  creature 

Knew  well  her  tactics  when 
She  casually  said  that  that  dream  in  red 

Had  cost  but  two  pounds  ten. 


THE   TEA-GOWN. 


Yet  our  home  is  all  the  brighter 

For  that  dainty,  sensient  thing, 
That  floats  away  where  it  properly  may, 

And  clings  where  it  ought  to  cling; 
And  I  count  myself  the  luckiest 

Of  all  us  married  men 
That  I  have  a  wife  whose  joy  in  life 

Is  a  gown  at  two  pounds  ten. 

It  is  n't  the  gown  compels  me 

Condone  this  venial  sin; 
It  's  the  pretty  face  above  the  lace, 

And  the  gentle  heart  within. 
And  with  her  arms  about  me 

I  say,  and  say  again, 
"  'T  was  wondrous  cheap,"  —  and  I  think  a  heap 

Of  that  gown  at  two  pounds  ten  ! 


64  DOCTORS. 


DOCTORS. 

"TH  IS  quite  the  thing  to  say  and  sing 

Gross  libels  on  the  doctor, — 
To  picture  him  an  ogre  grim 

Or  humbug-pill  concocter; 
Yet  it  's  in  quite  another  light 

My  friendly  pen  would  show  him, 
Glad  that  it  may  with  verse  repay 

Some  part  of  what  I  owe  him. 

When  one  's  all  right,  he  's  prone  to  spite 

The  doctor's  peaceful  mission; 
But  when  he  's  sick,  it  's  loud  and  quick 

He  bawls  for  a  physician.  .          . 

With  other  things,  the  doctor  brings 

Sweet  babes,  our  hearts  to  soften  : 
Though  I  have  four,  I  pine  for  more, — 

Good  doctor,  pray  come  often  ! 


DOCTORS.  65 

What  though  he  sees  death  and  disease 

Run  riot  all  around  him? 
Patient  and  true,  and  valorous  too, 

Such  have  I  always  found  him. 
Where'er  he  goes,  he  soothes  our  woes ; 

And  when  skill  's  unavailing, 
And  death  is  near,  his  words  of  cheer 

Support  our  courage  failing. 

In  ancient  days  they  used  to  praise 

The  godlike  art  of  healing, — 
An  art  that  then  engaged  all  men 

Possessed  of  sense  and  feeling. 
Why,  Raleigh,  he  was  glad  to  be 

Famed  for  a  quack  elixir; 
And  Digby  sold,  as  we  are  told, 

A  charm  for  folk  lovesick,  sir. 

Napoleon  knew  a  thing  or  two, 

And  clearly  he  was  partial 
To  doctors,  for  in  time  of  war 

He  chose  one  for  a  marshal. 

5 


66  DOCTORS. 


In  our  great  cause  a  doctor  was 
The  first  to  pass  death's  portal, 

And  Warren's  name  at  once  became 
A  beacon  and  immortal. 


A  heap,  indeed,  of  what  we  read 

By  doctors  is  provided; 
For  to  those  groves  Apollo  loves 

Their  leaning  is  decided. 
Deny  who  may  that  Rabelais 

Is  first  in  wit  and  learning, 
And  yet  all  smile  and  marvel  while 

His  brilliant  leaves  they  're  turning. 

How  Lever's  pen  has  charmed  all  men  ! 

How  touching  Rab's  short  story ! 
And  I  will  stake  my  all  that  Drake 

Is  still  the  schoolboy's  glory. 
A  doctor-man  it  was  began 

Great  Britain's  great  museum, — 
The  treasures  there  are  all  so  rare 

It  drives  me  wild  to  see  'em ! 


DOCTORS.  67 


There  's  Cuvier,  Parr,  and  Rush  \  they  are 

Big  monuments  to  learning. 
To  Mitchell's  prose  (how  smooth  it  flows  !) 

We  all  are  fondly  turning. 
Tomes  might  be  writ  of  that  keen  wit 

Which  Abernethy  's  famed  for ; 
With  bread-crumb  pills  he  cured  the  ills 

Most  doctors  now  get  blamed  for. 

In  modern  times  the  noble  rhymes 

Of  Holmes,  a  great  physician, 
Have  solace  brought  and  wisdom  taught 

To  hearts  of  all  condition. 
The  sailor,  bound  for  Puget  Sound, 

Finds  pleasure  still  unfailing, 
If  he  but  troll  the  barcarole 

Old  Osborne  wrote  on  Whaling. 

If  there  were  need,  I  could  proceed 
Ad  naus.  with  this  prescription, 

But,  inter  nos,  a  larger  dose 

Might  give  you  fits  conniption; 


68  DOCTORS. 


Yet,  ere  I  end,  there  's  one  dear  friend 

I  'd  hold  before  these  others, 
For  he  and  I  in  years  gone  by 

Have  chummed  around  like  brothers. 

Together  we  have  sung  in  glee 

The  songs  old  Horace  made  for 
Our  genial  craft,  together  quaffed 

What  bowls  that  doctor  paid  for ! 
I  love  the  rest,  but  love  him  best ; 

And,  were  not  times  so  pressing, 
I  'd  buy  and  send  —  you  smile,  old  friend  ? 

Well,  then,  here  goes  my  blessing. 


BARBARA.  69 


BARBARA. 

LITHE  was  the  youth  that  summer  day, 

As  he  smote  at  the  ribs  of  earth, 
And  he  plied  his  pick  with  a  merry  click, 

And  he  whistled  anon  in  mirth; 
And  the  constant  thought  of  his  dear  one's  face 
Seemed  to  illumine  that  ghostly  place. 

The  gaunt  earth  envied  the  lover's  joy, 
And  she  moved,  and  closed  on  his  head : 

With  no  one  nigh  and  with  never  a  cry 
The  beautiful  boy  lay  dead; 

And  the  treasure  he  sought  for  his  sweetheart  fair 

Crumbled,  and  clung  to  his  glorious  hair. 

Fifty  years  is  a  mighty  space 

In  the  human  toil  for  bread; 
But  to  Love  and  to  Death  't  is  merely  a  breath, 

A  dream  that  is  quickly  sped, — 
Fifty  years,  and  the  fair  lad  lay 
Just  as  he  fell  that  summer  day. 


70  BARBARA. 


At  last  came  others  in  quest  of  gold, 
And  hewed  in  that  mountain  place ; 

And  deep  in  the  ground  one  time  they  found 
The  boy  with  the  smiling  face : 

All  uncorrupt  by  the  pitiless  air, 

He  lay,  with  his  crown  of  golden  hair. 

They  bore  him  up  to  the  sun  again, 

And  laid  him  beside  the  brook, 
And  the  folk  came  down  from  the  busy  town 

To  wonder  and  prate  and  look; 
And  so,  to  a  world  that  knew  him  not, 
The  boy  came  back  to  the  old-time  spot. 

Old  Barbara  hobbled  among  the  rest, — 

Wrinkled  and  bowed  was  she, — 
And  she  gave  a  cry,  as  she  fared  anigh, 

"  At  last  he  is  come  to  me ! " 
And  she  kneeled  by  the   side  of  the  dead  boy 

there, 

And   she  kissed   his  lips,   and    she   stroked   his 
hair. 


BARBARA. 


"  Thine  eyes  are  sealed,  O  dearest  one  ! 

And  better  it  is  't  is  so, 
Else  thou  mightst  see  how  harsh  with  me 

Dealt  Life  thou  couldst  not  know : 
Kindlier  Death  has  kept  thee  fair; 
The  sorrow  of  Life  hath  been  my  share." 

Barbara  bowed  her  aged  face, 

And  fell  on  the  breast  of  her  dead ; 

And  the  golden  hair  of  her  dear  one  there 
Caressed  her  snow-white  head. 

Oh,  Life  is  sweet,  with  its  touch  of  pain ; 

But  sweeter  the  Death  that  joined  those  twain. 


72  THE  CAPS.  MOLINEAU. 


THE   CAF£   MOLINEAU. 


T^HE  Cafe"  Molineau  is  where 

A  dainty  little  minx 
Serves  God  and  man  as  best  she  can 

By  serving  meats  and  drinks. 
Oh,  such  an  air  the  creature  has, 

And  such  a  pretty  face  ! 
I  took  delight  that  autumn  night 

In  hanging  round  the  place. 

I  know  but  very  little  French 

(I  have  not  long  been  here)  ; 
But  when  she  spoke,  her  meaning  broke 

Full  sweetly  on  my  ear. 
Then,  too,  she  seemed  to  understand 

Whatever  I  'd  to  say, 
Though  most  I  knew  was  "  oony  poo," 

"Bong  zhoor,"  and  "see  voo  play." 


THE  CAP&  MOLINEAU.  73 

The  female  wit  is  always  quick, 

And  of  all  womankind 
'T  is  here  in  France  that  you,  perchance, 

The  keenest  wits  shall  find; 
And  here  you  '11  find  that  subtle  gift, 

That  rare,  distinctive  touch, 
Combined  with  grace  of  form  and  face, 

That  glads  men  overmuch. 

"Our  girls  at  home,"  I  mused  aloud, 

"Lack  either  that  or  this; 
They  don't  combine  the  arts  divine 

As  does  the  Gallic  miss. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  malign 

Our  belles  across  the  sea, 
And  yet  I  '11  swear  none  can  compare 

With  this  ideal  She." 

And  then  I  praised  her  dainty  foot 

In  very  awful  French, 
And  parleyvood  in  guileful  mood 

Until  the  saucy  wench 


74  THE  CAPS.  MOLINEAU. 

Tossed  back  her  haughty  auburn  head, 
And  froze  me  with  disdain : 

"There  are  on  me  no  flies,"  said  she, 
"  For  I  come  from  Bangor,  Maine  !  " 


HOLLY  AND  IVY.  75 


HOLLY   AND   IVY. 

TTOLLY  standeth  in  ye  house 

When  that  Noel  draweth  near; 
Evermore  at  ye  door 
Standeth  Ivy,  shivering  sore 

In  ye  night  wind  bleak  and  drear; 
And,  as  weary  hours  go  by, 
Doth  ye  one  to  other  cry. 


"Sister  Holly,"  Ivy  quoth, 

"What  is  that  within  you  see? 

To  and  fro  doth  ye  glow 

Of  ye  yule-log  nickering  go ; 

Would  its  warmth  did  cherish  me  ! 

Where  thou  bidest  is  it  warm; 

I  am  shaken  of  ye  storm." 


76  HOLLY  AND  IVY. 

"Sister  Ivy,"  Holly  quoth, 

"Brightly  burns  the  yule-log  here, 
And  love  brings  beauteous  things, 
While  a  guardian  angel  sings 

To  the  babes  that  slumber  near; 
But,  O  Ivy !   tell  me  now, 
What  without  there  seest  thou?" 

"Sister  Holly,"  Ivy  quoth, 

"With  fair  music  comes  ye  Morn, 

And  afar  burns  ye  Star 

Where  ye  wondering  shepherds  are, 
And  the  Shepherd  King  is  born : 

*  Peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men,' 

Angels  cry,  and  cry  again." 

Holly  standeth  in  ye  house 
When  that  Noel  draweth  near; 

Clambering  o'er  yonder  door, 

Ivy  standeth  evermore; 

And  to  them  that  rightly  hear 

Each  one  speaketh  of  ye  love 

That  outpoureth  from  Above. 


THE  BOLTONS,   22.  77 


THE   BOLTONS,  22. 

AWHEN  winter  nights  are  grewsome,  and  the 

heavy,  yellow  fog 

Gives  to  Piccadilly  semblance  of  a  dank,  mala- 
rious bog; 
When   a   demon,   with   companion   in   similitude 

of  bell, 
Goes   round   informing   people   he  has  crumpets 

for  to  sell; 
When   a  weird,  asthmatic   minstrel   haunts   your 

door  for  hours  along, 
Until  you  Ve  paid  him  tu'pence  for  the  thing  he 

calls  a  song,  — 
When,   in   short,   the   world  's   against   you,  and 

you  'd  give  that  world,  and  more, 
To  lay  your  weary  heart  at  rest  upon  your  native 

shore, 
There  's  happily  one   saving   thing  for  you   and 

yours  to  do : 
Go  t:all  on  Isaac  Henderson,  The  Boltons,  22. 


78  THE  BOLTONS,  22. 

The  place  is  all  so  cheery  and  so  warm  I  love 

to  spend 
My  evenings  in  communion  with  the  genial  host, 

my  friend. 
One  sees  chefs  d'ceuvre  of  masters  in  profusion 

on  the  walls, 
And  a  monster  canine  swaggers  up  and  down  the 

spacious  halls; 
There   are   divers   things   of  beauty  to   astound, 

instruct,  and  please, 
And   everywhere   assurance   of  contentment   and 

of  ease : 
But  best  of  all  the  gentle  hearts  I  meet  with  in 

the  place, — 
The  host's  good-fellowship,  his  wife's  sincere  and 

modest  grace; 
Why,   if    there    be    cordiality   that    warms    you 

through  and  through, 
It  's  found  at  Isaac  Henderson's,  The  Boltons,  22. 

My   favorite   room  's   the   study  that  is   on    the 

second  floor; 
And  there  we  sit  in  judgment  on  men  and  things 

galore. 


THE  BOLTONS,  22.  79 

The  fire  burns  briskly  in  the  grate,  and  sheds  a 

genial  glare 
On   me,   who   most   discreetly   have    pre-empted 

Isaac's  chair,  — 
A  big,  low  chair,  with  grateful  springs,  and  curious 

device 

To  keep  a  fellow's  cerebellum  comf 'table  and  nice. 
A   shade   obscures   the   functions   of    the   stately 

lamp,  in  spite 
Of  Mrs.  Henderson's  demands  for  somewhat  more 

of  light ; 
But   he   and   I  demur,  and  say  a  mystic  gloom 

will  do 
For  winter-night  communion  at  The  Boltons,  22. 

Sometimes  he  reads  me  Browning,  or  from  Bryant 
culls  a  bit, 

And  sometimes  plucks  a  gem  from  Hood's  phi- 
losophy and  wit; 

And  oftentimes  I  tell  him  yarns,  and  (what  I  fear 
is  worse) 

Recite  him  sundry  specimens  of  woolly  Western 
verse. 


THE  BOLTONS,  22. 


And   while   his   muse   and   mine    transcend    the 

bright  Horatian's  stars, 
He   smokes   his   modest  pipe,  and  I  —  I  smoke 

his  choice  cigars  ! 
For  best  of  mild  Havanas  this  considerate  host 

supplies,  — 
The  proper  brand,  the  proper  shade,  and  quite 

the  proper  size; 
And  so  I  buckle  down  and  smoke  and  smoke,  — 

and  so  will  you, 
If  ever  you  're  invited  to  The  Boltons,,  22. 

But,  oh !   the  best  of  worldly  joys  is  as  a  dream 

short-lived : 
'T  is  twelve  o'clock,  and   Robinson   reports   our 

cab  arrived. 
A  last  libation  ere  we  part,  and  hands  all  round, 

and  then 

A  cordial  invitation  to  us  both  to  come  again. 
So  home  through  Piccadilly  and  through  Oxford 

Street  we  jog, 
On   slippery,  noisy   pavements   and   in   blinding, 

choking  fog, — 


THE  BOLTONS,  22.  81 

The  same  old  route  through  Circus,  Square,  and 

Quadrant  we  retrace, 
Till  we   reach   the   princely   mansion   known   as 

20  Alfred  Place; 
And  then  we  seek  our  feathery  beds   of  cotton 

to  renew 
In  dreams  the   sweet   distractions  of  The   Bol- 

tons,  22. 

God    bless    you,   good   friend    Isaac,   and    your 

lovely,  gracious  wife ; 
May  health  and  wealth  attend  you,  and  happiness, 

through  life ; 
And   as   you   sit  of  evenings    that    quiet    room 

within, 
Know  that  in  spirit  I  shall  be  your  guest   as   I 

have  been. 
So  fill   and  place  beside   that  chair  that  dainty 

claret-cup ; 

Methinks  that  ghostly  hands  shall  take  the  tempt- 
ing offering  up, 
That  ghostly  lips  shall  touch  the  bowl  and  quaff 

the  ruby  wine, 

6 


82  THE  BOLTONS,  22. 

Pledging  in  true  affection  this  toast  to  thee  and 

thine : 
"  May  God's  best  blessings  fall  as  falls  the  gentle, 

gracious  dew 
Upon  the  kindly  household  at  The  Boltons,  22  !" 


DIBDIN'S  GHOST.  83 


DIBDIN'S  GHOST. 

T^VEAR  wife,  last  midnight,  whilst  I  read 

The  tomes  you  so  despise, 
A  spectre  rose  beside  the  bed, 

And  spake  in  this  true  wise : 
"From  Canaan's  beatific  coast 

I  Ve  come  to  visit  thee, 
For  I  am  Frognall  Dibdin's  ghost," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

I  bade  him  welcome,  and  we  twain 

Discussed  with  buoyant  hearts 
The  various  things  that  appertain 

To  bibliomaniac  arts. 
"  Since  you  are  fresh  from  t'  other  side, 

Pray  tell  me  of  that  host 
That  treasured  books  before  they  died," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 


84  DIBDIN^S  GHOST. 

"  They  Ve  entered  into  perfect  rest ; 

For  in  the  life  they  Ve  won 
There  are  no  auctions  to  molest, 

No  creditors  to  dun. 
Their  heavenly  rapture  has  no  bounds 

Beside  that  jasper  sea; 
It  is  a  joy  unknown  to  Lowndes," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

Much  I  rejoiced  to  hear  him  speak 

Of  biblio-bliss  above, 
For  I  am  one  of  those  who  seek 

What  bibliomaniacs  love. 
"But  tell  me,  for  I  long  to  hear 

What  doth  concern  me  most, 
Are  wives  admitted  to  that  sphere?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"The  women  folk  are  few  up  there; 

For  't  were  not  fair,  you  know, 
That  they  our  heavenly  joy  should  share 

Who  vex  us  here  below. 


\  8  fc 

OF 

UN  T.TY 


1 
DIBDIN'S  GHOST.  85 


The  few  are  those  who  have  been  kind 

To  husbands  such  as  we ; 
They  knew  our  fads,  and  did  n't  mind," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 

"  But  what  of  those  who  scold  at  us 

When  we  would  read  in  bed? 
Or,  wanting  victuals,  make  a  fuss 

If  we  buy  books  instead? 
And  what  of  those  who  Ve  dusted  not 

Our  motley  pride  and  boast, — 
Shall  they  profane  that  sacred  spot?" 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 

"  Oh,  no  !   they  tread  that  other  path, 

Which  leads  where  torments  roll, 
And  worms,  yes,  bookworms,  vent  their  wrath 

Upon  the  guilty  soul. 
Untouched  of  bibliomaniac  grace, 

That  saveth  such  as  we, 
They  wallow  in  that  dreadful  place," 

Says  Dibdin's  ghost  to  me. 


86  DIBDIWS  GHOST. 

"To  my  dear  wife  will  I  recite 

What  things  I  've  heard  you  say; 
She  '11  let  me  read  the  books  by  night 

She  's  let  me  buy  by  day. 
For  we  together  by  and  by 

Would  join  that  heavenly  host; 
She  's  earned  a  rest  as  well  as  I," 

Says  I  to  Dibdin's  ghost. 


THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN.  87 


THE   HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN. 

*"PHE  Hawthorne  children,  seven  in  all, 

Are  famous  friends  of  mine ; 
And  with  what  pleasure  I  recall 
How,  years  ago,  one  gloomy  fall 
I  took  a  tedious  railway  line, 
And  journeyed  by  slow  stages  down 
Unto  that  soporiferous  town 

(Albeit  one  worth  seeing) 
Where  Hildegarde,  John,  Henry,  Fred, 
And  Beatrix  and  Gwendolen, 
And  she  that  was  the  baby  then, — 
These  famous  seven,  as  aforesaid, 
Lived,  moved,  and  had  their  being. 

The  Hawthorne  children  gave  me  such 

A  welcome  by  the  sea 
That  the  eight  of  us  were  soon  in  touch, 
And,  though  their  mother  marvelled  much, 

Happy  as  larks  were  we. 


THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN. 


Egad,  I  was  a  boy  again 

With  Henry,  John,  and  Gwendolen; 

And  oh  the  funny  capers 
I  cut  with  Hildegarde  and  Fred ! 
And  oh  the  pranks  we  children  played ; 
And  oh  the  deafening  noise  we  made  — 
'T  would  shock  my  family  if  they  read 
About  it  in  the  papers ! 

The  Hawthorne  children  all  were  smart : 

The  girls,  as  I  recall, 
Had  comprehended  every  art 
Appealing  to  the  head  and  heart; 

The  boys  were  gifted,  all. 
'T  was  Hildegarde  who  showed  me  how 
To  hitch  a  horse  and  milk  a  cow 
And  cook  the  best  of  suppers; 

With  Beatrix  upon  the  sands 
I  sprinted  daily,  and  was  beat; 
'T  was  Henry  trained  me  to  the  feat 

Of  walking  round  upon  my  hands 
Instead  of  on  my  uppers. 


THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN.  89 

The  Hawthorne  children  liked  me  best 

Of  evenings,  after  tea, 
For  then,  by  general  request, 
I  spun  them  yarns  about  the  West, — 

Yarns  all  involving  Me  ! 
I  represented  how  I  'd  slain 
The  bison  on  his  native  plain; 
And  divers  tales  of  wonder 

I  told  of  how  I  'd  fought  and  bled 
In  Indian  scrimmages  galore, 
Till  Mrs.  Hawthorne  quoth,  "No  more," 

And  packed  her  darlings  off  to  bed, 
To  dream  of  blood  and  thunder. 


They  must  have  changed  a  deal  since  then; 

The  misses,  tall  and  fair, 
And  those  three  handsome,  lusty  men, — 
Would  they  be  girls  and  boys  again, 

Were  I  to  happen  there, 
Down  in  that  spot  beside  the  sea 
Where  we  made  such  tumultuous  glee 
That  dull  autumnal  weather? 


90  THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN. 

• 

Ah,  me  !   the  years  go  swiftly  by ; 
And  yet  how  fondly  I  recall 
The  week  when  we  were  children  all, 

Dear  Hawthorne  children,  you  and  I, 
Just  eight  of  us  together ! 


THE  BOTTLE  AND   THE  BIRD.  91 


THE   BOTTLE   AND   THE   BIRD. 


/^VNCE  on  a  time  a  friend  of  mine  prevailed 

on  me  to  go 
To  see  the  dazzling  splendors  of  a  sinful  ballet 

show; 
And    after  we   had    revelled    in    the    saltatory 

sights, 
We  sought  a  neighboring  cafe  for  more  tangible 

delights. 
When  I  demanded  of  my  friend  what  viands  he 

preferred, 
He   quoth:  "A   large  cold   bottle,  and   a  small 

hot  bird  !  " 

Fool  that  I  was,  I  did  not  know  what  anguish 

hidden  lies 
Within  the  morceau  that  allures  the  nostrils  and 

the  eyes  ! 


92  THE  BOTTLE  AND   THE  BIRD. 

There  is  a  glorious  candor  in  an  honest  quart  of 

wine, 

A  certain  inspiration  which  I  cannot  well  define  ! 
How  it  bubbles,  how  it  sparkles,  how  its  gurgling 

seems  to  say: 
"  Come  !   on  a  tide  of  rapture  let  me  float  your 

soul  away ! " 

But  the  crispy,  steaming  mouthful  that  is  spread 

upon  your  plate, — 
How  it   discounts   human   sapience  and  satirizes 

fate! 
You  would  n't  think  a  thing  so  small  could  cause 

the  pains  and  aches 
That  certainly  accrue  to  him  that  of  that  thing 

partakes ; 
To  me,  at  least,  (a  guileless  wight !)  it  never  once 

occurred 
What  horror  was  encompassed  in  that  small  hot 

bird. 

Oh,  what  a  head  I   had  on  me  when  I  awoke 

next  day, 
And  what  a  firm  conviction  of  intestinal  decay ! 


THE  BOTTLE  AND    THE  BIRD.  93 

What   seas  of  mineral  water  and  of  bromide  I 

applied 
To  quench  those  fierce  volcanic  fires  that  rioted 

inside  ! 
And    oh    the    thousand    solemn,    awful    vows    I 

plighted  then 
Never  to  tax  my  system  with  a  small  hot  bird 

again ! 

The   doctor  seemed  to  doubt   that   birds  could 

worry  people  so, 
But,  bless  him  !   since  I  ate  the  bird,  I  guess  I 

ought  to  know ! 

The  acidous  condition  of  my  stomach,  so  he  said, 
Bespoke  a  vinous  irritant  that  amplified  my  head, 
And,  ergo,  the  causation  of  the  thing,  as  he  in- 
ferred, 

Was  the  large  cold  bottle,  —  not  the  small  hot 
bird. 

Of  course  I  know  it  was  n't,  and  I  'm  sure  you  '11 

say  I  'm  right 
If  ever  it  has  been  your  wont  to  train  around  at 

night. 


94  THE  BOTTLE  AND    THE  BIRD. 

How  sweet  is  retrospection  when   one's  heart  is 

bathed  in  wine, 
And  before  its  balmy  breath  how  do  the  ills  of 

life  decline  ! 
How  the  gracious  juices  drown  what  griefs  would 

vex  a  mortal  breast, 
And   float   the   flattered    soul    into    the    port   of 

dreamless  rest ! 

But  you,  O  noxious,  pygmy  bird !  whether  it  be 

you  fly, 
Or  paddle  in  the  stagnant  pools  that  sweltering 

festering  lie, — 
I  curse  you  and  your  evil  kind  for  that  you  do 

me  wrong, 
Engendering    poisons    that    corrupt    my    petted 

muse  of  song; 
Go,  get  thee   hence  !   and  never  more  discomfit 

me  and  mine, — 
I  fain  would  barter  all  thy  brood  for  one  sweet 

draught  of  wine  ! 

So  hither  come,  O  sportive  youth !   when  fades 

the  telltale  day,— 
Come  hither,  with  your  fillets  and   your  wreaths 

of  posies  gay; 


THE  BOTTLE  AND    THE  BIRD.  95 

We  shall   unloose   the  fragrant  seas  of  seething, 

frothing  wine 
Which   now   the    cobwebbed    glass   and    envious 

wire  and  corks  confine, 
And  midst  the  pleasing  revelry  the  praises  shall 

be  heard 
Of  the   large   cold   bottle,  —  not  the   small  hot 

bird! 


96  AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL. 


AN   ECLOGUE   FROM  VIRGIL. 

[The  exile  Melibceus  finds  Tityrus  in  possession  of  his  own 
farm,  restored  to  him  by  the  Emperor  Augustus,  and  a  conversa- 
tion ensues.  The  poem  is  in  praise  of  Augustus,  peace,  and 
pastoral  life.] 

MELIBCEUS. 

'yiTYRUS,    all    in    the    shade    of   the    wide- 
spreading  beech-tree  reclining, 
Sweet  is  that  music  you've  made  on  your  pipe 

that  is  oaten  and  slender; 
Exiles  from  home,  you  beguile  our  hearts  from 

their  hopeless  repining, 

As  you  sing   Amaryllis  the  while  in  pastorals 
tuneful  and  tender. 

TITYRUS. 
A  god  —  yes,  a  god,  I  declare  —  vouchsafes  me 

these  pleasant  conditions, 
And  often  I  gayly  repair  with  a  tender  white 
lamb  to  his  altar; 


AN  ECLOGUE  PROM  VIRGIL.  97 

He  gives  me  the  leisure  to  play  my  greatly  ad- 
mired compositions, 

While    my   heifers    go    browsing    all   day,   un- 
hampered of  bell  and  of  halter. 

MELIBCEUS. 

I  do  not  begrudge  you  repose ;    I  simply  admit 

I  'm  confounded 
To  find  you  unscathed  of  the  woes  of  pillage 

and  tumult  and  battle. 
To  exile   and  hardship  devote,  and  by  merciless 

enemies  hounded, 
I  drag  at  this  wretched  old  goat  and  coax  on 

my  famishing  cattle. 
Oh,  often  the  omens  presaged  the  horrors  which 

now  overwhelm  me  — 
But,  come,  if  not  elsewise  engaged,  who  is  this 

good  deity,  tell  me  ! 

TITYRUS  (reminiscently). 

The  city  —  the  city  called  Rome,  with  my  head 

full  of  herding  and  tillage, 
I  used  to  compare  with  my  home,  these  pas- 
tures wherein  you  now  wander; 
7 


98  AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL. 

But  I  did  n't  take  long  to  find  out  that  the  city 

surpasses  the  village 

As  the  cypress  surpasses  the  sprout  that  thrives 
in  the  thicket  out  yonder. 

MELIBOEUS. 

Tell   me,  good  gossip,  I  pray,  what  led  you  to 
visit  the  city? 

TITYRUS. 
Liberty !  which  on  a  day  regarded  my  lot  with 

compassion ; 
My  age  and  distresses,  forsooth,  compelled  that 

proud  mistress  to  pity, 
That  had  snubbed  the  attentions  of  youth  in 

most  reprehensible  fashion. 
Oh,  happy,  thrice  happy,  the  day  when  the  cold 

Galatea  forsook  me; 

And  equally  happy,  I  say,  the  hour  when   that 
other  girl  took  me  ! 

MELIBCEUS  (slyly,  as  if  addressing  the  damsel). 

So  now,  Amaryllis,  the  truth  of  your  ill-disguised 

grief  I  discover ! 

You  pined  for  a  favorite    youth  with  cityfied 
damsels  hobnobbing; 


AN  ECLOGUE  PROM  VIRGIL.  9Q 

And    soon    your    surroundings    partook    of  your 

grief  for  your  recusant  lover, — 
The  pine-trees,  the  copse  and  the  brook,  for 
Tityrus  ever  went  sobbing. 

TITYRUS. 
Meliboeus,   what  else    could  I  do?    Fate   doled 

me  no  morsel  of  pity; 
My   toil   was    all   vain   the   year   through,   no 

matter  how  earnest  or  clever, 
Till,  at   last,   came   that   god   among   men,  that 

king  from  that  wonderful  city, 
And  quoth :    "  Take   your   homesteads   again ; 
they  are  yours  and  your  assigns  forever ! " 

MELIBCEUS 

Happy,  oh,  happy  old  man  !  rich  in  what  's  bet- 
ter than  money, — 
Rich   in   contentment,   you    can   gather   sweet 

peace  by  mere  listening; 
Bees  with  soft  murmurings  go  hither  and  thither 

for  honey, 

Cattle  all  gratefully  low  in  pastures  where  foun- 
tains are  glistening  — 


100  AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL. 

Hark  !  in  the  shade  of  that  rock  the  pruner  with 

singing  rejoices,  — 

The  dove  in  the  elm  and  the  flock  of  wood- 
pigeons  hoarsely  repining, 
The   plash   of  the  sacred  cascade,  —  ah,  restful, 

indeed,  are  these  voices, 

Tityrus,  all  in  the  shade  of  your  wide-spread- 
ing beech-tree  reclining ! 

TITYRUS. 
And  he  who  insures  this  to  me  —  oh,  craven  I 

were  not  to  love  him  ! 
Nay,  rather   the    fish   of  the   sea  shall  vacate 

the  water  they  swim  in, 
The  stag  quit  his  bountiful  grove  to  graze  in  the 

ether  above  him, 

While   folk   antipodean   rove   along  with  their 
children  and  women  ! 

MELIBGEUS  (suddenly  recalling  his  own  misery). 

But  we  who  are  exiled  must  go ;  and  whither  — 

ah,  whither  —  God  knoweth  ! 
Some  into  those  regions  of  snow  or  of  desert 
where  Death  reigneth  only; 


AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL.  101 

Some  off  to  the  country  of  Crete,  where  rapid 

Oaxes  down  floweth; 
And   desperate   others   retreat   to   Britain,  the 

bleak  isle  and  lonely. 
Dear  land  of  my  birth !    shall  I  see  the  horde 

of  invaders  oppress  thee? 
Shall   the  wealth  that   outspringeth  from  thee 
by  the  hand  of  the  alien  be  squandered? 
Dear  cottage  wherein  I  was  born !  shall  another 

in  conquest  possess  thee, 
Another  demolish  in  scorn  the  fields  and  the 

groves  where  I  Ve  wandered? 
My  flock !    nevermore   shall  you   graze   on   that 

furze-covered  hillside  above  me; 
Gone,  gone   are   the   halcyon   days  when   my 

reed  piped  defiance  to  sorrow ! 
Nevermore  in  the  vine-covered  grot  shall  I  sing 

of  the  loved  ones  that  love  me, — 
Let   yesterday's   peace   be  forgot   in  dread  of 
the  stormy  to-morrow ! 


102  AN  ECLOGUE  FROM  VIRGIL. 

TITYRUS. 

But  rest  you  this  night  with  me  here ;  my  bed,  — 

we  will  share  it  together, 
As  soon  as  you  Ve  tasted  my  cheer,  my  apples 

and  chestnuts  and  cheeses; 
The  evening  already  is  nigh,  —  the  shadows  creep 

over  the  heather, 

And  the  smoke  is   rocked   up  to  the   sky   to 
the  lullaby  song  of  the  breezes. 


PITTYPAT  AND   TIPPYTOB.  103 


PITTYPAT  AND   TIPPYTOE. 

A  LL  day  long  they  come  and  go,— 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoe; 
Footprints  up  and  down  the  hall, 

Playthings  scattered  on  the  floor, 
Finger-marks  along  the  wall, 

Tell-tale  streaks  upon  the  door, — 
By  these  presents  you  shall  know 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

How  they  riot  at  their  play ! 
And,  a  dozen  times  a  day, 

In  they  troop,  demanding  bread, — 

Only  buttered  bread  will  do, 
And  that  butter  must  be  spread 
Inches  thick  with  sugar  too ! 
Never  yet  have  I  said,  "No, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe  !  " 


104  PITTYPAT  AND    TIPPY  TOE. 

Sometimes  there  are  griefs  to  soothe, 
Sometimes  ruffled  brows  to  smooth ; 
For  —  I  much  regret  to  say  — 

Tippytoe  and  Pittypat 
Sometimes  interrupt  their  play 

With  an  internecine  spat; 
Fie  !  oh,  fie !  to  quarrel  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe  ! 

Oh,  the  thousand  worrying  things 
Every  day  recurrent  brings ! 

Hands  to  scrub  and  hair  to  brush, 
Search  for  playthings  gone  amiss, 
Many  a  murmuring  to  hush, 

Many  a  little  bump  to  kiss ; 
Life  's  indeed  a  fleeting  show, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe  ! 

And  when  day  is  at  an  end, 
There  are  little  duds  to  mend; 
Little  frocks  are  strangely  torn, 
Little  shoes  great  holes  reveal, 


PITTYPAT  AND    TIPPYTOE.  105 

Little  hose,  but  one  day  worn, 
Rudely  yawn  at  toe  or  heel ! 
Who  but  you  could  work  such  woe, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe ! 

But  when  comes  this  thought  to  me, 
"Some  there  are  that  childless  be," 
Stealing  to  their  little  beds, 

With  a  love  I  cannot  speak, 
Tenderly  I  stroke  their  heads, 

Fondly  kiss  each  velvet  cheek. 
God  help  those  who  do  not  know 
A  Pittypat  or  Tippytoe  ! 

On  the  floor,  along  the  hall, 
Rudely  traced  upon  the  wall, 
There  are  proofs  in  every  kind 

Of  the  havoc  they  have  wrought ; 
And  upon  my  heart  you  'd  find 

Just  such  trademarks,  if  you  sought. 
Oh,  how  glad  I  am  't  is  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe  ! 


106  ASHES  ON  THE  SLIDE. 


ASHES   ON   THE   SLIDE. 

*\  \  THEN  Jim  and  Bill  and  I  were  boys  a  many 
years  ago, 

How  gayly  did  we  use  to  hail  the  coming  of 
the  snow ! 

Our  sleds,  fresh  painted  red  and  with  their  run- 
ners round  and  bright, 

Seemed  to  respond  right  briskly  to  our  clamor 
of  delight 

As  we  dragged  them  up  the  slippery  road  that 
climbed  the  rugged  hill 

Where  perched  the  old  frame  meetin'-house,  so 
solemn-like  and  still. 

Ah,    coasting    in    those    days  —  those    good    old 

days  —  was  fun  indeed  ! 
Sleds    at    that   time   I  'd    have   you   know   were 

paragons  of  speed ! 
And   if  the   hill   got  bare   in  spots,  as  hills  will 

do,  why  then 


ASHES  ON  THE  SLIDE.  107 

We  'd  haul  on  ice  and  snow  to  patch  those  bald 

spots  up  again; 
But,    oh !    with    what    sad    certainty    our    spirits 

would  subside 
When  Deacon  Frisbee  sprinkled  ashes  where  we 

used  to  slide  ! 

The  deacon  he  would   roll   his   eyes   and   gnash 

his  toothless  gums, 
And  clear  his  skinny  throat,  and  twirl  his  saintly, 

bony  thumbs, 
And  tell  you :  "  When  I  wuz  a  boy,  they  taught 

me  to  eschew 
The  godless,  ribald  vanities  which  modern  youth 

pursue  ! 
The  pathway  that  leads  down  to  hell  is  slippery, 

straight,  and  wide; 
And  Satan  lurks  for  prey  where  little  boys  are 

wont  to  slide  !  " 

Now,  he  who  ever  in  his  life  has  been  a  little 

boy 
Will  not  reprove  me  when  he  hears  the  language 

I  employ 


108  ASHES  ON  THE  SLIDE. 

To  stigmatize  as  wickedness  the  deacon's  zealous 

spite 
In   interfering  with  the   play  wherein  we  found 

delight ; 
And  so  I  say,  with  confidence,  not  unalloyed  of 

pride  : 
"Gol  durn  the  man  who  sprinkles  ashes  where 

the  youngsters  slide  !  " 

But  Deacon  Frisbee  long  ago  went  to  his  last- 
ing rest, 

His  money  well  invested  in  farm  mortgages  out 
West; 

Bill,  Jim,  and  I,  no  longer  boys,  have  learned 
through  years  of  strife 

That  the  troubles  of  the  little  boy  pursue  the 
man  through  life; 

That  here  and  there  along  the  course  wherein 
we  hoped  to  glide 

Some  envious  hand  has  sprinkled  ashes  just  to 
spoil  our  slide  ! 

And   that    malicious,   envious    hand    is    not    the 

deacon's  now. 
Grim,  ruthless   Fate,   that  evil  sprite  none  other 

is  than  thou  ! 


ASHES  ON  THE  SLIDE.  109 

Riches  and  honors,  peace  and  care  come  at  thy 

beck  and  go; 
The  soul,  elate  with  joy  to-day,  to-morrow  writhes 

in  woe; 
And  till  a  man  has  turned  his  face  unto  the  wall 

and  died, 
He  must  expect  to  get  his  share  of  ashes  on  his 

slide  ! 


110  THE  LOST  CUPID  OP  MOSCHUS. 


THE   LOST   CUPID   OF   MOSCHUS. 


/^UPID  !  "   Venus  went  a-crying  ; 

"  Cupid,  whither  dost  thou  stray  ? 
Tell  me,  people,  hither  hieing, 

Have  you  seen  my  runaway? 

Speak,  —  my  kiss  shall  be  your  pay  ! 
Yes,  and  sweets  more  gratifying, 

If  you  bring  him  back  to-day.  ' 


"  Cupid,"  Venus  went  a-calling, 

"Is  a  rosy  little  youth, 
But  his  beauty  is  inthralling. 

He  will  speak  you  fair,  in  sooth, 

Wheedle  you  with  glib  untruth,  — 
Honey-like  his  words;    but  galling 

Are  his  deeds,  and  full  of  ruth  ! 


THE  LOST  CUPID  OF  MOSCHUS.          HI 

"Cupid's  hair  is  curling  yellow, 

And  he  hath  a  saucy  face; 
With  his  chubby  hands  the  fellow 

Shooteth  into  farthest  space, 

Heedless  of  all  time  and  place; 
King  and  squire  and  punchinello 

He  delighteth  to  abase  ! 

"Nude  and  winged  the  prankish  blade  is, 

And  he  speedeth  everywhere, 
Vexing  gentlemen  and  ladies, 

Callow  youths  and  damsels  fair 

Whom  he  catcheth  unaware, — 
Venturing  even  into  Hades, 

He  hath  sown  his  torments  there  ! 

"  For  that  bow,  that  bow  and  quiver,  — 

Oh,  they  are  a  cruel  twain ! 
Thinking  of  them  makes  me  shiver. 
Oft,  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
Cupid  sends  those  darts  profane 
Whizzing  through  my  heart  and  liver, 
Setting  fire  to  every  vein  ! 


112  THE  LOST  CUPID  OF  MOSCHUS. 

"And  the  torch  he  carries  blazing, — 

Truly  't  is  a  tiny  one  ; 
Yet,  that  tiny  torch  upraising, 

Cupid  scarifies  the  sun  ! 

Ah,  good  people,  there  is  none 
Knows  what  mischief  most  amazing 

Cupid's  evil  torch  hath  done ! 

"  Show  no  mercy  when  you  find  him  ! 

Spite  of  every  specious  plea 
And  of  all  his  whimpering,  bind  him  ! 
Full  of  flatteries  is  he ; 
Armed  with  treachery,  cap-a-pie, 
He  '11  play  'possum  ;    never  mind  him,  — 
March  him  straightway  back  to  me  ! 

"Bow  and  arrows  and  sweet  kisses 

He  will  offer  you,  no  doubt; 
But  beware  those  proffered  blisses, — 

They  are  venomous  throughout ! 

Seize  and  bind  him  fast  about; 
Mind  you,  —  most  important  this  is  : 

Bind  him,  bring  him,  but  —  watch  out !  " 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
The  evening  shades  are  falling,  — 
Hush  thee,  my  dear,  dost  thou  not  hear 
The  voice  of  the  Master  calling  ? 

Deep  lies  the  snow  upon  the  earth, 

But  all  the  sky  is  ringing 
With  joyous  song,  and  all  night  long 

The  stars  shall  dance,  with  singing. 

Oh,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
And  close  thine  eyes  in  dreaming, 

And  angels  fair  shall  lead  thee  where 
The  singing  stars  are  beaming. 

A  shepherd  calls  his  little  lambs, 
And  he  longeth  to  caress  them; 

He  bids  them  rest  upon  his  breast, 
That  his  tender  love  may  bless  them. 
8 


114  CHRIS  TMAS  E  VE. 

So,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-my-Soul, 
Whilst  evening  shades  are  falling, 

And  above  the  song  of  the  heavenly  throng 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  Master  calling. 


CARLSBAD. 


CARLSBAD. 


TIN  IVERSrr  Y 
(  "V      f, 


115 


"p\EAR  Palmer,  just  a  year  ago  we  did  the 
Carlsbad  cure, 

Which,  though  it  be  exceeding  slow,  is  as  ex- 
ceeding sure ; 

To  corpulency  you  were  prone,  dyspepsia  both- 
ered me, — 

You  tipped  the  beam  at  twenty  stone  and  I  at 
ten  stone  three ! 

The  cure,  they  told  us,  works  both  ways :  it 
makes  the  fat  man  lean; 

The  thin  man,  after  many  days,  achieves  a  portly 
mien; 

And  though  it 's  true  you  still  are  fat,  while  I  am 
like  a  crow,  — 

All  skin  and  feathers,  —  what  of  that?  The  cure 
takes  time,  you  know. 


116  CARLSBAD. 


The  Carlsbad  scenery  is   sublime,  —  that's  what 

the  guide-books  say; 
We  did  not  think  so  at  that  time,  nor  think  / 

so  to-day ! 
The  bluffs  that  squeeze  the  panting  town  permit 

no  pleasing  views, 
But  weigh   the   mortal   spirits   down   and  give  a 

chap  the  blues. 
With  nothing  to  amuse  us  then  or  mitigate  our 

spleen, 
We  rose  and  went  to  bed  again,  with  three  bad 

meals  between; 
And  constantly  we  made  our  moan, — ah,  none 

so  drear  as  we, 
When   you   were   weighing   twenty  stone   and   I 

but  ten  stone  three  ! 

We  never  scaled  the  mountain-side,  for  walking 

was  my  bane, 
And  you  were  much  too  big  to  ride  the  mules 

that  there  obtain; 
And  so  we  loitered  in  the  shade  with  Israel  out 

in  force, 
Or  through  the  Pupp'sche  allee  strayed  and  heard 

the  band  discourse. 


CARLSBAD.  117 


Sometimes  it  pleased  us  to  recline  upon  the  Tepl's 

brink, 
Or  watch  the  bilious  human   line   file  round  to 

get  a  drink; 
Anon   the   portier's  piping   tone   embittered  you 

and  me, 
When  you  were   weighing   twenty   stone   and   I 

but  ten  stone  three  ! 

And  oh !    those  awful  things  to  eat !     No  pud- 
ding, cake,  or  pie, 
But  just  a  little  dab  of  meat,  and  crusts  absurdly 

dry; 
Then,  too,  that  water  twice  a  day,  —  one  swallow 

was  enough 
To  take  one's  appetite  away,  —  the  tepid,  awful 

stuff! 
Tortured  by  hunger's  cruel  stings,  I  'd  little  else 

to  do 
Than  feast  my  eyes  upon  the  things  prescribed 

and  cooked  for  you. 
The  goodies  went  to  you  alone,  the  husks  all  fell 

to  me, 
When   you   were   weighing   twenty    stone   and   I 

weighed  ten  stone  three. 


118  CARLSBAD. 


Yet  happy  days  !  and  rapturous  ills  !  and  sweetly 

dismal  date  ! 
When,    sandwiched   in    between   those    hills,   we 

twain  bemoaned  our  fate. 
The  little  woes  we  suffered  then  like  mists  have 

sped  away, 
And  I  were  glad  to  share   again  those   ills  with 

you  to-day, — 
To   flounder   in   those   rains  of  June  that   flood 

that  Austrian  vale, 
To  quaff  that  tepid  Kaiserbrunn  and   starve  on 

victuals  stale  ! 
And  often,  leagues  and  leagues  away  from  where 

we  suffered  then, 
With  envious  yearnings  I  survey  what  cannot  be 

again ! 

And  often  in  my  quiet  home,  through  dim  and 

misty  eyes, 
I  seem  to  see  that  curhaus  dome   blink  at  the 

radiant  skies; 
I  seem  to  hear  that  Wiener  band  above  the  Tepl's 

roar,  — 
To  feel  the  pressure  of  your  hand  and  hear  your 

voice  once  more ; 


CARLSBAD. 


And,  better  yet,  my  heart  is  warm  with  thoughts 

of  you  and  yours, 
For  friendship  hath  a  sweeter  charm  than  thrice 

ten  thousand  cures ! 
So  I  am  happy  to  have  known  that  time  across 

the  sea 
When  you  were   weighing   twenty   stone   and    I 

weighed  ten  stone  three. 


120  THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE. 


THE   SUGAR-PLUM   TREE. 

TJAVE  you  ever  heard  of  the  Sugar-Plum  Tree? 

'T  is  a  marvel  of  great  renown ! 
It  blooms  on  the  shore  of  the  Lollipop  Sea 

In  the  garden  of  Shut- Eye  Town ; 
The  fruit  that  it  bears  is  so  wondrously  sweet 

(As  those  who  have  tasted  it  say) 
That  good  little  children  have  only  to  eat 

Of  that  fruit  to  be  happy  next  day. 

When  you  Ve  got  to  the  tree,  you  would  have  a 
hard  time 

To  capture  the  fruit  which  I  sing; 
The  tree  is  so  tall  that  no  person  could  climb 

To  the  boughs  where  the  sugar-plums  swing ! 
But  up  in  that  tree  sits  a  chocolate  cat, 

And  a  gingerbread  dog  prowls  below; 
And  this  is  the  way  you  contrive  to  get  at 

Those  sugar-plums  tempting  you  so : 


THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE.  121 

You  say  but  the  word  to  that  gingerbread  dog, 

And  he  barks  with  such  terrible  zest 
That  the  chocolate  cat  is  at  once  all  agog, 

As  her  swelling  proportions  attest. 
And  the  chocolate  cat  goes  cavorting'  around 

From  this  leafy  limb  unto  that, 
And   the    sugar-plums  tumble,  of  course,  to  the 
ground,  — 

Hurrah  for  that  chocolate  cat ! 

There  are  marshmallows,  gum-drops,  and  pepper- 
mint canes, 

With  stripings  of  scarlet  or  gold, 
And  you  carry  away  of  the  treasure  that  rains 

As  much  as  your  apron  can  hold  ! 
So  come,  little  child,  cuddle  closer  to  me 

In  your  dainty  white  nightcap  and  gown, 
And  I  '11  rock  you  away  to  that  Sugar-Plum  Tree 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town. 


122  RED. 


RED. 

A  NY  color,  so  long  as  it  's  red, 

Is  the  color  that  suits  me  best, 
Though  I  will  allow  there  is  much  to  be  said 

For  yellow  and  green  and  the  rest; 
But  the  feeble  tints  which  some  affect 

In  the  things  they  make  or  buy 
Have  never  —  I  say  it  with  all  respect  — 
Appealed  to  my  critical  eye. 

There  's  that  in  red  that  warmeth  the  blood, 

And  quickeneth  a  man  within, 
And  bringeth  to  speedy  and  perfect  bud 

The  germs  of  original  sin; 
So,  though  I  'm  properly  born  and  bred, 

I  '11  own,  with  a  certain  zest, 
That  any  color,  so  long  as  it  's  red, 

Is  the  color  that  suits  me  best. 

For  where  is  a  color  that  can  compare 
With  the  blush  of  a  buxom  lass; 

Or  where  such  warmth  as  of  the  hair 
Of  the  genuine  white  horse  class? 


RED.  123 

And,  lo  !    reflected  within  this  cup 

Of  cheery  Bordeaux  I  see 
What  inspiration  girdeth  me  up, — 

Yes,  red  is  the  color  for  me  ! 

Through  acres  and  acres  of  art  I  Ve  strayed 

In  Italy,  Germany,  France  ; 
On  many  a  picture  a  master  has  made 

I  Ve  squandered  a  passing  glance : 
Marines  I  hate,  madonnas  and 

Those  Dutch  freaks  I  detest; 
But  the  peerless  daubs  of  my  native  land, — 

They  're  red,  and  I  like  them  best. 

T  is  little  I  care  how  folk  deride,  — 

I  'm  backed  by  the  West,  at  least ; 
And  we  are  free  to  say  that  we  can't  abide 

The  tastes  that  obtain  down  East; 
And  we  're  mighty  proud  to  have  it  said 

That  here  in  the  versatile  West 
Most  any  color,  so  long  as  it  's  red, 

Is  the  color  that  suits  us  best. 


124  JEWISH  LULLABY. 


JEWISH   LULLABY. 

1V/TY  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree, 

Else  would  I  sing,  O  love,  to  thee 

A  song  of  long  ago, — 
Perchance  the  song  that  Miriam  sung 
Ere  yet  Judaea's  heart  was  wrung 

By  centuries  of  woe. 

The  shadow  of  those  centuries  lies 
Deep  in  thy  dark  and  mournful  eyes; 

But,  hush !   and  close  them  now, 
And  in  the  dreams  that  thou  shalt  dream 
The  light  of  other  days  shall  seem 

To  glorify  thy  brow. 

I  ate  my  crust  in  tears  to-day, 
As,  scourged,  I  went  upon  my  way, 

And  yet  my  darling  smiled, — 
Ay,  beating  at  my  breast,  he  laughed ; 
My  anguish  curdled  not  the  draught, 

'T  was  sweet  with  love,  my  child. 


JEWISH  LULLABY.  125 

Our  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree : 
I  have  no  song  to  sing  to  thee, 

As  shadows  round  us  roll; 
But,  hush !  and  sleep,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Jehovah's  voice  that  speaks  to  cheer 

Judaea's  fainting  soul. 


126  AT  CHEYENNE. 


AT   CHEYENNE. 

\7OUNG  Lochinvar  came  in  from  the  west, 
With  fringe  on  his  trousers  and  fur  on  his 

vest; 

The  width  of  his  hat  brim  could  nowhere  be  beat, 
His  No.  10  brogans  were  chock  full  of  feet, 
His  girdle  was  horrent  with  pistols  and  things, 
And  he  flourished  a  handful  of  aces  on  kings. 


The  fair  Marianjf  sate  watching  a  star, 

When    who     should     turn    up    but    the    young 


Her  pulchritude  gave  him  a  pectoral  glow, 
And    he    reined    up    his    hoss   with    stentorian 

"Whoa!" 

Then  turned  on  the  maiden  a  rapturous  grin, 
And  modestly  asked  if  he  might  n't  step  in. 


AT  CHEYENNE.  127 


With  presence  of  mind  that  was  marvellous  quite, 
The  fair  Marian^ replied  that  he  might; 
So  in  through  the  portal  rode  young  Lochinvar, 
Pre-empted  the  claim,  and  cleaned  out  the  bar. 
Though  the  justice  allowed  he  wa'n't  wholly  to 

blame, 
He  taxed  him  ten  dollars  and  costs,  just  the  same. 


128  THE  NAUGHTY  DOLL. 


THE    NAUGHTY    DOLL. 

TV/TY  dolly  is  a  dreadful  care, — 

Her  name  is  Miss  Amandy; 
I  dress  her  up  and  curl  her  hair, 

And  feed  her  taffy  candy. 
Yet,  heedless  of  the  pleading  voice 

Of  her  devoted  mother, 
She  will  not  wed  her  mother's  choice, 

But  says  she  '11  wed  another. 

I  'd  have  her  wed  the  china  vase,  — 

There  is  no  Dresden  rarer; 
You  might  go  searching  every  place 

And  never  find  a  fairer. 
He  is  a  gentle,  pinkish  youth, — 

Of  that  there  's  no  denying ; 
Yet  when  I  speak  of  him,  forsooth  ! 

Amandy  falls  to  crying. 


THE  NAUGHTY  DOLL.  129 

She  loves  the  drum,  —  that 's  very  plain,  — 

And  scorns  the  vase  so  clever, 
And,  weeping,  vows  she  will  remain 

A  spinster  doll  forever ! 
The  •  protestations  of  the  drum 

I  am  convinced  are  hollow; 
When  once  distressing  times  should  come, 

How  soon  would  ruin  follow ! 

Yet  all  in  vain  the  Dresden  boy 

From  yonder  mantel  woos  her; 
A  mania  for  that  vulgar  toy, 

The  noisy  drum,  imbues  her. 
In  vain  I  wheel  her  to  and  fro, 

And  reason  with  her  mildly: 
Her  waxen  tears  in  torrents  flow, 

Her  sawdust  heart  beats  wildly. 

I  rm  sure  that  when  I  'm  big  and  tall, 
And  wear  long  trailing  dresses, 

I  sha'n't  encourage  beaux  at  all 
Till  mamma  acquiesces ; 
9 


130  THE  NAUGHTY  DOLL. 

Our  choice  will  be  a  suitor  then 
As  pretty  as  this  vase  is, — 

Oh,  how  we  '11  hate  the  noisy  men 
With  whiskers  on  their  faces ! 


THE  PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE. 


THE   PNEUMOGASTRIC   NERVE. 

T  TPON  an  average,  twice  a  week, 

When  anguish  clouds  my  brow, 
My  good  physician  friend  I  seek 

To  know  "  what  ails  me  now." 
He  taps  me  on  the  back  and  chest, 

And  scans  my  tongue  for  bile, 
And  lays  an  ear  against  my  breast 

And  listens  there  awhile; 
Then  is  he  ready  to  admit 

That  all  he  can  observe 
Is  something  wrong  inside,  to  wit : 

My  pneumogastric  nerve  ! 

Now,  when  these  Latin  names  within 

Dyspeptic  hulks  like  mine 
Go  wrong,  a  fellow  should  begin 

To  draw  what 's  called  the  line. 


132  THE  PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE. 

It  seems,  however,  that  this  same, 

Which  in  my  hulk  abounds, 
Is  not,  despite  its  awful  name, 

So  fatal  as  it  sounds; 
Yet  of  all  torments  known  to  me, 

I  '11  say  without  reserve, 
There  is  no  torment  like  to  thee, 

Thou  pneumogastric  nerve  ! 


This  subtle,  envious  nerve  appears 

To  be  a  patient  foe, — 
It  waited  nearly  forty  years 

Its  chance  to  lay  me  low; 
Then,  like  some  blithering  blast  of  hell, 

It  struck  this  guileless  bard, 
And  in  that  evil  hour  I  fell 

Prodigious  far  and  hard. 
Alas !  what  things  I  dearly  love  — 

Pies,  puddings,  and  preserves  — 
Are  sure  to  rouse  the  vengeance  of 

All  pneumogastric  nerves  ! 


THE  PNEUMOGASTRIC  NERVE. 


Oh  that  I  could  remodel  man  ! 

I  'd  end  these  cruel  pains 
By  hitting  on  a  different  plan 

From  that  which  now  obtains. 
The  stomach,  greatly  amplified, 

Anon  should  occupy 
The  all  of  that  domain  inside 

Where  heart  and  lungs  now  lie. 
But,  first  of  all,  I  should  depose 

That  diabolic  curve 
And  author  of  my  thousand  woes, 

The  pneumogastric  nerve  ! 


134  TEENY-WEENY. 


TEENY-WEENY. 

evening,  after  tea, 
Teeny-Weeny  comes  to  me, 
And,  astride  my  willing  knee, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away; 
Though  that  palfrey,  all  too  spare, 
Finds  his  burden  hard  to  bear, 
Teeny- Weeny  does  n't  care,  — 
He  commands,  and  I  obey ! 

First  it 's  trot ;    and  gallop  then,  — 
Now  it 's  back  to  trot  again ; 
Teeny- Weeny  likes  it  when 

He  is  riding  fierce  and  fast ! 
Then  his  dark  eyes  brighter  grow 
And  his  cheeks  are  all  aglow, — 
"More!"  he  cries,  and  never  "Whoa!" 

Till  the  horse  breaks  down  at  last ! 


TEENY-  WEENY.  135 


Oh,  the  strange  and  lovely  sights 

Teeny- Weeny  sees  of  nights, 

As  he  makes  those  famous  flights 

On  that  wondrous  horse  of  his ! 
Oftentimes,  before  he  knows, 
Wearylike  his  eyelids  close, 
And,  still  smiling,  off  he  goes 

Where  the  land  of  By-low  is. 

There  he  sees  the  folk  of  fay 
Hard  at  ring-a-rosie  play, 
And  he  hears  those  fairies  say, 

"  Come,  let 's  chase  him  to  and  fro  ! " 
But,  with  a  defiant  shout, 
Teeny  puts  that  host  to  rout, — 
Of  this  tale  I  make  no  doubt, — 
Every  night  he  tells  it  so ! 

So  I  feel  a  tender  pride 
In  my  boy  who  dares  to  ride 
(That  fierce  horse  of  his  astride) 
Off  into  those  misty  lands; 


136  TEENY-WEENY. 

And  as  on  my  breast  he  lies, 
Dreaming  in  that  wondrous  wise, 
I  caress  his  folded  eyes,  — 

Pat  his  little  dimpled  hands. 

On  a  time  he  went  away, 
Just  a  little  while  to  stay, 
And  I  'm  not  ashamed  to  say 

I  was  very  lonely  then; 
Life  without  him  was  so  sad, 
You  can  fancy  I  was  glad 
And  made  merry  when  I  had 

Teeny- Weeny  back  again  ! 

So  of  evenings,  after  tea, 
When  he  toddles  up  to  me 
And  goes  tugging  at  my  knee, 

You  should  hear  his  palfrey  neigh ! 
You  should  see  him  prance  and  shy, 
When,  with  an  exulting  cry, 
Teeny- Weeny,  vaulting  high, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away! 


TELKA.  137 


T 


TELKA. 

HROUGH  those  golden  summer  days 
Our  twin  flocks  were  wont  to  graze 
On  the  hillside,  which  the  sun 
Rested  lovingly  upon, — 
Telka's  flock  and  mine ;   and  we 
Sung  our  songs  in  rapturous  glee, 
Idling  in  the  pleasant  shade 
Which  the  solemn  Yew-tree  made, 
While  the  Brook  anear  us  played, 
And  a  white  Rose,  ghost-like,  grew 
In  the  shadow  of  the  Yew. 

Telka  loved  me  passing  well; 
How  I  loved  her  none  can  tell ! 
How  I  love  her  none  may  know, — 
Oh  that  man  love  woman  so  ! 
When  she  was  not  at  my  side, 
Loud  my  heart  in  anguish  cried, 
And  my  lips,  till  she  replied. 


138  TELKA. 


Yet  they  think  to  silence  me, — 
As  if  love  could  silenced  be  ! 
Fool  were  I,  and  fools  were  they ! 
Still  I  wend  my  lonely  way, 
"Telka,"  evermore  I  cry; 
Answer  me  the  woods  and  sky, 
And  the  weary  years  go  by. 

Telka,  she  was  passing  fair; 
And  the  glory  of  her  hair 
Was  such  glory  as  the  sun 
With  his  blessing  casts  upon 
Yonder  lonely  mountain  height, 
Lifting  up  to  bid  good-night 
To  her  sovereign  in  the  west, 
Sinking  wearily  to  rest, 
Drowsing  in  that  golden  sea 
Where  the  realms  of  Dreamland  be. 

So  our  love  to  fulness  grew, 
Whilst  beneath  the  solemn  Yew 
Ghost-like  paled  the  Rose  of  white, 
As  it  were  some  fancied  sight 
Blanched  it  with  a  dread  affright. 


TELKA.  139 


Telka,  she  was  passing  fair ; 
And  our  peace  was  perfect  there 
Till,  enchanted  by  her  smile, 
Lurked  the  South  Wind  there  awhile, 
Underneath  that  hillside  tree 
Where  with  singing  idled  we, 
And  I  heard  the  South  Wind  say 
Flattering  words  to  her  that  day 
Of  a  city  far  away. 
But  the  Yew-tree  crouched  as  though 
It  were  like  to  whisper  No 
To  the  words  the  South  Wind  said 
As  he  smoothed  my  Telka' s  head. 
And  the  Brook,  all  pleading,  cried 
To  the  dear  one  at  my  side : 
"Linger  always  where  I  am; 
Stray  not  thence,  O  cosset  lamb ! 
Wander  not  where  shadows  deep 
On  the  treacherous  quicksands  sleep, 
And  the  haunted  waters  leap ; 
Be  thou  ware  the  waves  that  flow 
Toward  the  prison  pool  below, 
Where,  beguiled  from  yonder  sky, 


140  TELKA. 


Captive  moonbeams  shivering  lie, 
And  at  dawn  of  morrow  die." 
So  the  Brook  to  Telka  cried, 
But  my  Telka  naught  replied; 
And,  as  in  a  strange  affright, 
Paled  the  Rose  a  ghostlier  white. 

When  anon  the  North  Wind  came, — 
Rudely  blustering  Telka's  name, 
And  he  kissed  the  leaves  that  grew 
Round  about  the  trembling  Yew,  — 
Kissed  and  romped  till,  blushing  red, 
All  one  day  in  terror  fled, 
And  the  white  Rose  hung  her  head; 
Coming  to  our  trysting  spot, 
Long  I  called ;   she  answered  not. 
"Telka!"  pleadingly  I  cried 
Up  and  down  the  mountain -side 
Where  we  twain  were  wont  to  bide. 

There  were  those  who  thought  that  I 
Could  be  silenced  with  a  lie, 
And  they  told  me  Telka's  name 
Should  be  spoken  now  with  shame : 


TELKA.  141 


"She  is  lost  to  us  and  thee,"  — 
That  is  what  they  said  to  me. 

"Is  my  Telka  lost?"   quoth  I. 
"On  this  hilltop  shall  I  cry, 
So  that  she  may  hear  and  then 
Find  her  way  to  me  again. 
The  South  Wind  spoke  a  lie  that  day; 
All  deceived,  she  lost  her  way 
Yonder  where  the  shadows  sleep 
'Mongst  the  haunted  waves  that  leap 
Over  treacherous  quicksands  deep, 
And  where  captive  moonbeams  lie 
Doomed  at  morrow's  dawn  to  die 
She  is  lost,  and  that  is  all; 
I  will  search  for  her,  and  call." 

Summer  comes  and  winter  goes, 

Buds  the  Yew  and  blooms  the  Rose; 

All  the  others  are  anear, — 

Only  Telka  is  not  here ! 

Gone  the  peace  and  love  I  knew 

Sometime  'neath  the  hillside  Yew; 


142  TELKA. 


And  the  Rose,  that  mocks  me  so, 
I  had  crushed  it  long  ago 
But  that  Telka  loved  it  then, 
And  shall  soothe  its  terror  when 
She  comes  back  to  me  again. 
Call  I,  seek  I  everywhere 
For  my  Telka,  passing  fair. 
It  is,  oh,  so  many  a  year 
I  have  called !     She  does  not  hear, 
Yet  nor  feared  nor  worn  am  I; 
For  I  know  that  if  I  cry 
She  shall  sometime  hear  my  call. 
She  is  lost,  and  that  is  all, — 
She  is  lost  in  some  far  spot; 
I  have  searched,  and  found  it  not. 
Could  she  hear  me  calling,  then 
Would  she  come  to  me  again; 
For  she  loved  me  passing  well, — 
How  I  love  her  none  can  tell ! 
That  is  why  these  years  I  Ve  cried 
"  Telka  !  "  on  this  mountain-side. 
"  Telka  ! "  still  I,  pleading,  cry ; 
Answer  me  the  woods  and  sky, 
And  the  lonely  years  go  by. 


TELKA.  143 


On  an  evening  dark  and  chill 
Came  a  shadow  up  the  hill, — 
Came  a  spectre,  grim  and  white 
As  a  ghost  that  walks  the  night, 
Grim  and  bowed,  and  with  the  cry 
Of  a  wretch  about  to  die, — 
Came  and  fell  and  cried  to  me  : 
"  It  is  Telka  come  ! "    said  she. 
So  she  fell  and  so  she  cried 
On  that  lonely  mountain-side 
Where  was  Telka  wont  to  bide. 

"Who  hath  bribed  those  lips  to  lie? 
Telka's  face  was  fair,"  quoth  I; 
"Thine  is  furrowed  with  despair. 
There  is  winter  in  thy  hair; 
But  upon  her  beauteous  head 
Was  there  summer  glory  shed, — 
Such  a  glory  as  the  sun, 
When  his  daily  course  is  run, 
Smiles  upon  this  mountain  height 
As  he  kisses  it  good-night. 
There  was  music  in  her  tone, 
Misery  in  thy  voice  alone. 


144  TELKA. 


They  have  bid  thee  lie  to  me. 
Let  me  pass  !     Thou  art  not  she ! 
Let  my  sorrow  sacred  be 
Underneath  this  trysting  tree  !  " 

So  in  wrath  I  went  my  way, 
And  they  came  another  day, — 
Came  another  day,  and  said : 
"Hush  thy  cry,  for  she  is  dead, 
Yonder  on  the  mountain-side 
She  is  buried  where  she  died, 
Where  you  twain  were  wont  to  bide, 
Where  she  came  and  fell  and  cried 
Pardon  that  thy  wrath  denied; 
And  above  her  bosom  grows 
As  in  mockery  the  Rose : 
It  was  white ;   but  now  't  is  red, 
And  in  shame  it  bows  its  head 
Over  sinful  Telka  dead." 

So  they  thought  to  silence  me, — 
As  if  love  could  silenced  be ! 
Fool  were  I,  and  fools  were  they ! 
Scornfully  I  went  my  way, 


TELKA.  145 


And  upon  the  mountain-side 
"  Telka  !  "  evermore  I  cried. 
"Telka!"  evermore  I  cry; 
Answer  me  the  woods  and  sky : 
So  the  lonely  years  go  by. 

She  is  lost,  and  that  is  all; 
Sometime  she  shall  hear  my  call, 
Hear  my  pleading  call,  and  then 
Find  her  way  to  me  again. 


10 


146        PLAINT  OP   THE  MISSOURI  'COON. 


PLAINT  OF  THE  MISSOURI  'COON  IN  THE 
BERLIN   ZOOLOGICAL   GARDENS. 

TC'RIEND,  by  the  way  you  hump  yourself  you  're 

from  the  States,  I  know, 
And   born   in   old   Mizzoorah,  where   the  'coons 

in  plenty  grow. 
I,   too,   am    native    of    that    clime;    but   harsh, 

relentless  fate 
Has  doomed  me  to  an  exile  far  from  that  noble 

State ; 
And   I,  who   used   to   climb   around,  and   swing 

from  tree  to  tree, 
Now  lead  a  life  of  ignominious  ease,  as  you  can 

see. 
Have    pity,   O   compatriot    mine !    and    bide    a 

season  near, 
While  I  unfurl  a  dismal  tale  to  catch  your  friendly 

ear. 


PLAINT  OP   THE  MISSOURI  'COON.         147 

My  pedigree  is  noble :   they  used  my  grandsire's 

skin 
To  piece  a  coat  for  Patterson   to  warm   himself 

within,  — 

Tom  Patterson,  of  Denver;  no  ermine  can  com- 
pare 
With  the  grizzled  robe  that  Democratic  statesman 

loves  to  wear. 
Of  such   a   grandsire  I  am   come ;   and   in   the 

County  Cole 
All  up  an  ancient  cottonwood  our  family  had  its 

hole. 
We   envied  not  the   liveried    pomp    nor  proud 

estate  of  kings, 
As  we  hustled  round  from  day  to  day  in  search 

of  bugs  and  things. 

And  when  the  darkness  fell  around,  a  mocking- 
bird was  nigh, 

Inviting  pleasant,  soothing  dreams  with  his  sweet 
lullaby ; 

And  sometimes  came  the  yellow  dog  to  brag 
around  all  night 

That  nary  'coon  could  wallop  him  in  a  stand-up 
barrel  fight. 


148        PLAINT  OF    THE  MISSOURI  'COON. 

We    simply   smiled    and    let    him   howl,   for  all 

Mizzoorians  know 
That  ary  'coon  can  best  a  dog,  if  the  coon  gets 

half  a  show; 
But  we  'd    nestle    close    and    shiver  when    the 

mellow  moon  had  ris'n, 
And  the  hungry  nigger  sought  our  lair  in  hopes 

to  make  us  his'n. 

Raised   as  I  was,  it  's  hardly  strange  I  pine  for 

those  old  days ; 

I  cannot  get  acclimated,  or  used  to  German  ways. 
The  victuals  that  they  give  me  here  may  all  be 

very  fine 
For  vulgar,  common   palates,  but  they  will   not 

do  for  mine. 
The   'coon    that  's  been    accustomed  to   stanch 

democratic  cheer 
Will   not   put  up  with  onion   tarts   and   sausage 

steeped  in  beer ! 
No ;   let  the  rest,  for  meat  and  drink,  accede  to 

slavish  terms, 
But  send  me  back  from  whence  I  came,  and  let 

me  grub  for  worms  ! 


TTNIVER3IT 


PLAINT  OP   THE  MISSOURI  'COOW.        149 

They  come,  these  gaping  Teutons  do,  on  Sunday 

afternoons, 
And   wonder  what   I   am,  —  alas,   there   are   no 

German  'coons  ! 
For  if  there  were,  I  still  might  swing  at  home 

from  tree  to  tree, 
The  symbol  of  democracy,  that  's  woolly,  blithe, 

and  free. 
And  yet  for  what  my  captors  are   I  would   not 

change  my  lot, 

For/  have  tasted  liberty,  these  others  they  have  not ; 
So,  even  caged,  the  democratic  'coon  more  glory 

feels 
Than   the   conscript  German   puppets  with  their 

swords  about  their  heels. 

Well,  give  my  love  to  Crittenden,  to  Clardy,  and 

O'Neill, 
To  Jasper  Burke   and  Col.  Jones,  and   tell  'em 

how  I  feel; 
My  compliments  to  Cockrill,  Stephens,  Switzler, 

Francis,  Vest, 
Bill  Nelson,  J.  West  Goodwin,  Jedge  Broadhead, 

and  the  rest. 


150        PLAINT  OF   THE  MISSOURI  'COON. 

Bid  them  be  steadfast  in  the  faith,  and  pay  no 
heed  at  all 

To  Joe  McCullagh's  badinage  or  Chauncey  Filley's 
gall; 

And  urge  them  to  retaliate  for  what  I  'm  suffer- 
ing here 

By  cinching  all  the  alien  class  that  wants  its 
Sunday  beer. 


ARMENIAN  L  ULLAB  Y.  151 


ARMENIAN   LULLABY. 

TF  thou  wilt  close  thy  drowsy  eyes, 

My  mulberry  one,  my  golden  son, 
The  rose  shall  sing  thee  lullabies, 

My  pretty  cosset  lambkin ! 
And  thou  shalt  swing  in  an  almond-tree, 
With  a  flood  of  moonbeams  rocking  thee,- 
A  silver  boat  in  a  golden  sea, — 
My  velvet  love,  my  nestling  dove, 
My  own  pomegranate-blossom  ! 

The  stork  shall  guard  thee  passing  well 

All  night,  my  sweet,  my  dimple-feet. 
And  bring  thee  myrrh  and  asphodel, 

My  gentle  rain-of-springtime  ; 
And  for  thy  slumber-play  shall  twine 
The  diamond  stars  with  an  emerald  vine, 
To  trail  in  the  waves  of  ruby  wine, 

My  hyacinth-bloom,  my  heart's  perfume, 

My  cooing  little  turtle  ! 


152  ARMENIAN  LULLABY. 

And  when  the  morn  wakes  up  to  see 

My  apple-bright,  my  soul's  delight, 
The  partridge  shall  come  calling  thee, 

My  jar  of  milk-and-honey ! 
Yes,  thou  shalt  know  what  mystery  lies 
In  the  amethyst  deep  of  the  curtained  skies, 
If  thou  wilt  fold  thy  onyx  eyes, 

You  wakeful  one,  you  naughty  son, 

You  chirping  little  sparrow ! 


THE  PARTRIDGE.  153 


THE   PARTRIDGE. 

A  S  beats  the  sun  from  mountain  crest, 

With  "Pretty,  pretty," 
Cometh  the  partridge  from  her  nest. 
The  flowers  threw  kisses  sweet  to  her 
(For  all  the  flowers  that  bloomed  knew  her) 
Yet  hasteneth  she  to  mine  and  me, — 
Ah,  pretty,  pretty  ! 
Ah,  dear  little  partridge  ! 

And  when  I  hear  the  partridge  cry 

So  pretty,  pretty, 
Upon  the  house-top  breakfast  I. 
She  comes  a-chirping  far  and  wide. 
And  swinging  from  the  mountain- side 
I  see  and  hear  the  dainty  dear, — 

Ah,  pretty,  pretty ! 

Ah,  dear  little  partridge  ! 


154  THE  PARTRIDGE, 

Thy  nest  's  inlaid  with  posies  rare, 

And  pretty,  pretty; 
Bloom  violet,  rose,  and  lily  there; 
The  place  is  full  of  balmy  dew 
(The  tears  of  flowers  in  love  with  you !)  ; 
And  one  and  all,  impassioned,  call, 

"  O  pretty,  pretty  ! 

O  dear  little  partridge  ! " 

Thy  feathers  they  are  soft  and  sleek, — 

So  pretty,  pretty ! 

Long  is  thy  neck,  and  small  thy  beak, 
The  color  of  thy  plumage  far 
More  bright  than  rainbow  colors  are. 
Sweeter  than  dove  is  she  I  love,  — 

My  pretty,  pretty ! 

My  dear  little  partridge ! 

When  comes  the  partridge  from  the  tree, 

So  pretty,  pretty, 

And  sings  her  little  hymn  to  me, 
Why,  all  the  world  is  cheered  thereby, 


THE  PARTRIDGE.  155 

The  heart  leaps  up  into  the  eye, 

And  Echo  then  gives  back  again 
Our  "  Pretty,  pretty  !  " 
Our  "  Dear  little  partridge  !  " 

Admitting  thee  most  blest  of  all, 

And  pretty,  pretty, 

The  birds  come  with  thee  at  thy  call; 
In  flocks  they  come,  and  round  thee  play, 
And  this  is  what  they  seem  to  say,  — 
They  say  and  sing,  each  feathered  thing, 

"  Ah,  pretty,  pretty  ! 

Ah,  dear  little  partridge  !  " 


156  CORINTHIAN  HALL. 


CORINTHIAN   HALL. 

/CORINTHIAN  HALL  is  a  tumble-down  place, 
Which  some  finical  folks  have  pronounced 

a  disgrace ; 

But  once  was  a  time  when  Corinthian  Hall 
Excited  the  rapture  and  plaudits  of  all, 

With  its  carpeted  stairs, 

And  its  new  yellow  chairs. 
And  its  stunning  ensemble  of  citified  airs. 
Why,  the  Atchison  Champion  said  't  was  the  best 
Of  Thespian  temples  extant  in  the  West. 


It  was  new,  and  was  ours,  —  that  was  ages  ago. 
Before  opry  had  spoiled  the  legitimate  show, — 
It  was  new,  and  was  ours  !  We  could  toss  back 

the  jeers 
Our  rivals  had  launched  at  our  city  for  years. 


CORINTHIAN  HALL.  157 

Corinthian  Hall ! 

Why,  it  discounted  all 
Other  halls  in  the  Valley,  and  well  I  recall 
The  night  of  the  opening;  from  near  and  afar 
Came  the  crowd  to   see   Toodles   performed   by 
De  Bar. 

Oh,  those  days  they  were  palmy,  and  never  again 
Shall  earth  see  such  genius  as  gladdened  us  then ; 
For  actors  were  actors,  and  each  one  knew  how 
To  whoop  up  his  art  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
He  'd  a  tragedy  air,  and  wore  copious  hair; 
And  when  he  ate  victuals,  he  ordered  'em  rare. 
Dame  Fortune  ne'er  feazed  him,  —  in  fact,  never 

could 
When  liquor  was  handy  and  walking  was  good. 

And  the  shows  in  those  days !     Ah,  how  well  I 

recall 

The  shows  that  I  saw  in  Corinthian  Hall ! 
Maggie   Mitchell  and   Lotty  were   then   in   their 

prime ; 
And  as  for  Jane  Coombs,  she  was  simply  sublime ; 


158  CORINTHIAN  HALL. 

And   I  'm  ready  to   swear  there   is  none   could 

compare 

With  Breslau  in  Borgia,  supported  by  Fair; 
While  in  passionate  roles  it  was  patent  to  us 
That  the  great  John  A.  Stevens  was  ne  ultra  plus. 

And  was  there  demand  for  the  tribute  of  tears, 
We  had  sweet  Charlotte  Thompson  those  halcyon 

years, 

And  wee  Katie  Putnam.     The  savants  allow 
That  the  like  of  Kate  Fisher  ain't  visible  now. 
What  artist  to-day  have  we  equal  to  Rae, 
Or  to   sturdy  Jack   Langrishe?      God   rest  'em, 

I   say  ! 

And  when  died  Buchanan,  the  "  St.  Joe  Gazette  " 
Opined  that  the  sun  of  our  drama  had  set. 

Corinthian  Hall  was  devoted  to  song 

When   the    Barnabee    concert    troupe    happened 

along, 

Or  Ossian  E.  Dodge,  or  the  Comical  Brown, 
Or  the  Holmans  with  William   H.  Crane  struck 

our  town; 


CORINTHIAN  HALL.  159 

But  the  one  special  card 

That  hit  us  all  hard 

Was  Caroline  Richings  and  Peter  Bernard; 
And  the  bells  of  the  Bergers  still  ring  in  my  ears ; 
And,  oh,  how  I  laughed  at  Sol  Russell  those  years  ! 

The  Haverly  Minstrels  were  boss  in  those  days, 
And  our  critics  accorded  them  columns  of  praise  ; 
They  'd   handsome    mustaches    and    big    cluster 

rings, 
And  their  shirt  fronts  were  blazing  with  diamonds 

and  things; 

They  gave  a  parade,  and  sweet  music  they  made 
Every  evening  in  front  of  the  house  where  they 

played. 

'Twixt  posters  and  hand- bills  the  town  was  agog 
For  Primrose  and  West  in  their  great  statue  clog. 

Many  years  intervene,  yet  I  'm  free  to  maintain 
That  I  doted  on  Chanfrau,  McWade,  and  Frank 

Frayne ; 

Tom  Stivers,  the  local,  declared  for  a  truth 
That  Mayo  as  Hamlet  was  better  than  Booth : 


160  CORINTHIAN  HALL. 

While  in  roles  that  were  thrillin',  involving  much 

killin1, 

Jim  Wallick  loomed  up  our  ideal  of  a  villain; 
Mrs.  Bowers,  Alvin  Joslin,  Frank  Aiken,  —  they  all 
Earned  their  titles  to  fame  in  Corinthian  Hall. 

But  Time,  as  begrudging  the  glory  that  fell 
On  the  spot  I  revere  and  remember  so  well, 
Spent  his  spite  on  the  timbers,  the  plaster,  and 

paint, 

And  breathed  on  them  all  his  morbiferous  taint ; 
So  the  trappings  of  gold  and  the  gear  manifold 
Got  gangrened  with  rust  and  rheumatic  with 

mould, 

And  we  saw  dank  decay  and  oblivion  fall, 
Like  vapors  of  night,  on  Corinthian  Hall. 

When  the  gas  is  ablaze  in  the  opry  at  night, 
And  the  music  goes  floating  on  billows  of  light, 
Why,  I  often  regret    that  I  'm  grown  to  a  man, 
And  I  pine  to  be  back  where  my  mission  began, 

And  I  'm  fain  to  recall 

Reminiscences  all 


CORINTHIAN  HALL.  l6l 

That  come  with  the  thought  of  Corinthian  Hall, — 
To  hear  and  to  see  what  delighted  me  then, 
And  to  revel  in  raptures  of  boyhood  again. 

Though  Corinthian  Hall  is  a  tumble- down  place, 
Which   some    finical    folks    have    pronounced   a 

disgrace, 
There  is  one  young  old  boy,  quite  as  worthy  as 

they, 

Who,  aweary  of  art  as  expounded  to-day, 
Would  surrender  what  gold 
He  's  amassed  to  behold 
A  tithe  of  the  wonderful  doings  of  old, 
A  glimpse  of  the  glories  that  used  to  enthrall 
Our  creme  de  la  creme  in  Corinthian  Hall. 


ii 


162  THE  RED,  RED   WEST. 


THE   RED,  RED   WEST. 

T  'VE  travelled  in  heaps  of  countries,  and  studied 

all  kinds  of  art, 
Till   there    is  n't  a   critic   or  connoisseur   who  's 

properly  deemed  so  smart; 
And  I  'm  free  to  say  that  the  grand  results  of  my 

explorations  show 
That  somehow  paint  gets  redder  the  farther  out 

West  I  go. 

I  Ve  sipped  the  voluptuous  sherbet  that  the  Ori- 
entals serve, 

And  I  Ve  felt  the  glow  of  red  Bordeaux  tingling 
each  separate  nerve; 

I  Ve  sampled  your  classic  Massic  under  an  arbor 
green, 

And  I  Ve  reeked  with  song  a  whole  night   long 

« 

over  a  brown  poteen. 


THE  RED,  RED    WEST. 


The    stalwart    brew    of    the    land   o'  cakes,  the 

schnapps  of  the  frugal  Dutch, 
The    much-praised   wine   of    the    distant    Rhine, 

and  the  beer  praised  overmuch, 
The  ale  of  dear  old   London,  and   the   port   of 

Southern  climes,  — 
All,  ad  infin.,  have  I  taken  in  a  hundred  thousand 

times. 

Yet,  as  I  afore-mentioned,  these  other  charms  are 

naught 
Compared  with  the  paramount  gorgeousness  with 

which  the  West  is  fraught; 
For  Art  and  Nature  are  just  the  same  in  the  land 

where  the  porker  grows, 
And  the  paint   keeps   getting   redder  the  farther 

out  West  one  goes. 

Our  savants   have   never   discovered   the   reason 

why  this  is  so, 
And   ninety   per   cent   of  the   laymen   care   less 

than  the  savants  know; 

It  answers  every  purpose  that  this  is  manifest  : 
The  paint  keeps  getting  redder  the  farther  you 

go  out  West. 


164  THE  RED,  RED    WEST. 

Give  me  no  home  'neath  the  pale  pink  dome  of 

European  skies, 
No  cot  for  me  by  the  salmon  sea  that  far  to  the 

southward  lies; 
But  away  out  West  I  would   build  my  nest  on 

top  of  a  carmine  hill, 
Where   I   can   paint,   without    restraint,   creation 

redder  still ! 


THE    THREE  KINGS  OF  COLOGNE.         165 


THE   THREE   KINGS   OF   COLOGNE. 

TJ^ROM  out  Cologne  there  came  three  kings 

To  worship  Jesus  Christ,  their  King. 
To  Him  they  sought  fine  herbs  they  brought, 

And  many  a  beauteous  golden  thing ; 
They  brought  their  gifts  to  Bethlehem  town, 
And  in  that  manger  set  them  down. 

Then  spake  the  first  king,  and  he  said : 
"  O  Child,  most  heavenly,  bright,  and  fair  ! 

I  bring  this  crown  to  Bethlehem  town 
For  Thee,  and  only  Thee,  to  wear ; 

So  give  a  heavenly  crown  to  me 

When  I  shall  come  at  last  to  Thee  !  " 

The  second,  then.     "  I  bring  Thee  here 
This  royal  robe,  O  Child  !  "  he  cried ; 

"  Of  silk  't  is  spun,  and  such  an  one 
There  is  not  in  the  world  beside; 

So  in  the  day  of  doom  requite 

Me  with  a  heavenly  robe  of  white  ! " 


166         THE    THREE  KINGS  OF  COLOGNE. 

The  third  king  gave  his  gift,  and  quoth : 
"  Spikenard  and  myrrh  to  Thee  I  brin£ 

And  with  these  twain  would  I  most  fain 
Anoint  the  body  of  my  King; 

So  may  their  incense  sometime  rise 

To  plead  for  me  in  yonder  skies ! " 

Thus  spake  the  three  kings  of  Cologne, 
That  gave  their  gifts,  and  went  their  way; 

And  now  kneel  I  in  prayer  hard  by 
The  cradle  of  the  Child  to-day ; 

Nor  crown,  nor  robe,  nor  spice  I  bring 

As  offering  unto  Christ,  my  King. 

Yet  have  I  brought  a  gift  the  Child 
May  not  despise,  however  small ; 

For  here  I  lay  my  heart  to-day, 
And  it  is  full  of  love  to  all. 

Take  Thou  the  poor  but  loyal  thing, 

My  only  tribute,  Christ,  my  King  ! 


IPSWICH-  167 


IPSWICH. 

TN  Ipswich  nights  are  cool  and  fair, 

And  the  voice  that  comes  from  the  yonder  sea 
Sings  to  the  quaint  old  mansions  there 

Of  "the  time,  the  time  that  used  to  be  ;  " 
And  the  quaint  old  mansions  rock  and  groan, 
And  they  seem  to  say  in  an  undertone, 
With  half  a  sigh  and  with  half  a  moan : 

"  It  was,  but  it  never  again  will  be." 

In  Ipswich  witches  weave  at  night 
Their  magic  spells  with  impish  glee ; 

They  shriek  and  laugh  in  their  demon  flight 
From  the  old  Main  House  to  the  frightened  sea. 

And  ghosts  of  eld  come  out  to  weep 

Over  the  town  that  is  fast  asleep; 

And  they  sob  and  they  wail,  as  on  they  creep : 
"  It  was,  but  it  never  again  will  be." 


168  IPSWICH. 


In  Ipswich  riseth  Heart-Break  Hill 

Over  against  the  calling  sea; 
And  through  the  nights  so  deep  and  chill 

Watcheth  a  maiden  constantly, — 
Watcheth  alone,  nor  seems  to  hear 
Over  the  roar  of  the  waves  anear 
The  pitiful  cry  of  a  far-off  year : 

"It  was,  but  it  never  again  will  be." 

In  Ipswich  once  a  witch  I  knew, — 

An  artless  Saxon  witch  was  she ; 
By  that  flaxen  hair  and  those  eyes  of  blue, 

Sweet  was  the  spell  she  cast  on  me. 
Alas !   but  the  years  have  wrought  me  ill, 
And  the  heart  that  is  old  and  battered  and  chill 
Seeketh  again  on  Heart-Break  Hill 

What  was,  but  never  again  can  be. 

Dear  Anna,  I  would  not  conjure  down 
The  ghost  that  cometh  to  solace  me; 

I  love  to  think  of  old  Ipswich  town, 

Where  somewhat  better  than  friends  were  we  ; 


IPSWICH,  169 

For  with  every  thought  of  the  dear  old  place 
Cometh  again  the  tender  grace 
Of  a  Saxon  witch's  pretty  face, 

As  it  was,  and  is,  and  ever  shall  be. 


170  BILUS  TENOR  AND  MY  BASS. 


BILL'S  TENOR   AND   MY   BASS. 

"DILL  was  short  and  dapper,  while  I  was  thin 

and  tall; 

I  had  flowin'  whiskers,  but  Bill  had  none  at  all ; 
Clothes  would  never  seem  to  set  so  nice  on  me 

as  him, — 
Folks  used  to  laugh,  and  say  I  was  too  powerful 

slim,  — 
But  Bill's  clothes  fit  him  like  the  paper  on   the 

wall; 
And  we  were  the  sparkin'est  beaus  in  all  the 

place 
When  Bill  sung  tenor  and  I  sung  bass. 

Cyrus   Baker's   oldest   girl  was    member   of   the 

choir,  — 
Eyes  as  black  as  Kelsey's  cat,  and  cheeks  as  red 

as  fire  ! 


BILL'S  TENOR  AND  MY  BASS.  171 

She   had   the   best   sopranner  voice  I  think  I 

ever  heard, — 
Sung  "Coronation,"  "Burlington,"  and  "Chiny  " 

like  a  bird ; 
Never    done    better    than    with    Bill    a-standin* 

nigh  'er, 
A-holdin'  of  her  hymn-book  so  she  would  n't 

lose  the  place, 
When  Bill  sung  tenor  and  I  sung  bass. 

Then  there  was  Prudence  Hubbard,  so  cosey-like 

and  fat, — 
She  sung  alto,  and  wore  a  pee-wee  hat ; 

Beaued  her  around  one  winter,  and,  first  thing 

I  knew, 
One  evenin'  on  the  portico  I  up  and  called 

her  "Prue"! 
But,  sakes  alive  !   she  did  n't  mind  a  little  thing 

like  that; 

On  all  the  works  of  Providence  she  set  a  cheer- 
ful face 

When  Bill  was  singin'  tenor  and  I  was  singin' 
bass. 


172  BILDS   TENOR  AND  MY  BASS. 

Bill,  nevermore  we   two   shall   share   the  fun  we 

used  to  then, 
Nor  know  the  comfort   and   the   peace  we   had 

together  when 
We   lived   in   Massachusetts   in   the   good   old 

courtin'   days, 
And  lifted  up  our  voices  in  psalms  and  hymns 

of  praise. 
Oh,  how  I  wisht  that  I  could  live  them  happy 

times  again ! 
For  life,  as   we   boys   knew   it,  had   a   sweet, 

peculiar  grace 

When  you  was  singin'  tenor  and  I  was  singin' 
bass. 

The  music  folks  have  nowadays  ain't  what  it  used 

to  be, 
Because  there  ain't  no  singers  now  on  earth  like 

Bill  and  me. 

Why,  Lemuel  Bangs,  who  used  to  go  to  Spring- 
field twice  a  year, 

Admitted  that  for  singin'  Bill  and  me  had  not 
a  peer 


BILDS   TENOR  AND  MY  BASS. 


When  Bill  went   soarin'  up  to  A  and  I  dropped 

down  to  D  ! 
The  old  bull-fiddle  Beza  Dimmitt  played  warn't 

in  the  race 

'Longside  of  Bill's  high  tenor  and  my  sonorious 
bass. 

Bill  moved  to  Californy  in  the  spring  of  '54, 
And  we  folks  that  used  to  know  him  never  knew 

him  any  more  ; 
Then   Cyrus   Baker's   oldest   girl,  she   kind  o' 

pined  a  spell, 

And,  hankerin'  after  sympathy,  it  naterally  befell 
That  she  married  Deacon  Pitkin's  boy,  who  kep' 

the  general  store; 
And   so   the   years,  the   changeful   years,  have 

rattled  on  apace 
Since  Bill  sung  tenor  and  I  sung  bass. 

As  I  was  settin'  by  the  stove  this  evenin'  after  tea, 
I  noticed  wife  kep'  hitchin'  close  and  closer  up 
to  me; 


174  BILDS  TENOR  AND  MY  BASS. 

And  as   she   patched   the   gingham  frock   our 

gran'child  wore  to-day, 
I  heerd  her  gin  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  come 

from  fur  away. 

Could  n't  help  inquirin'  what  the  trouble  might  be  ; 
"Was  thinkin'  of  the  time,"  says  Prue,  a-breshin' 

at  her  face, 
"When  Bill  sung  tenor  and  you  sung  bass." 


PIDUCIT.  175 


FIDUCIT. 

comrades  on  the  German  Rhine, 
Defying  care  and  weather, 
Together  quaffed  the  mellow  wine, 

And  sung  their  songs  together. 
What  recked  they  of  the  griefs  of  life, 
With  wine  and  song  to  cheer  them? 
Though  elsewhere  trouble  might  be  rife, 
It  would  not  come  anear  them. 

Anon  one  comrade  passed  away, 

And  presently  another, 
And  yet  unto  the  tryst  each  day 

Repaired  the  lonely  brother; 
And  still,  as  gayly  as  of  old, 

That  third  one,  hero-hearted, 
Filled  to  the  brim  each  cup  of  gold, 

And  called  to  the  departed, — 


176  PIDUCIT. 


"  O  comrades  mine  !   I  see  ye  not, 

Nor  hear  your  kindly  greeting, 
Yet  in  this  old,  familiar  spot 

Be  still  our  loving  meeting ! 
Here  have  I  filled  each  bouting-cup 

With  juices  red  and  cheery; 
I  pray  ye  drink  the  portion  up, 

And  as  of  old  make  merry ! " 

And  once  before  his  tear- dimmed  eyes, 

All  in  the  haunted  gloaming, 
He  saw  two  ghostly  figures  rise, 

And  quaff  the  beakers  foaming; 
He  heard  two  spirit  voices  call, 

"Fiducit,  jovial  brother!" 
And  so  forever  from  that  hall 

Went  they  with  one  another. 


THE   "ST.  JO  GAZETTE."  177 


THE   "ST.  JO   GAZETTE." 

"IIT'HEN   I  helped   'em  run  the  local  on  the 

"St.  Jo  Gazette," 

I  was  upon  familiar  terms  with  every  one  I  met ; 
For  "items"  were   my   stock  in   trade   in   that 

my  callow  time, 
Before   the   muses   tempted   me  to  try  my  hand 

at  rhyme, — 

Before  I  found  in  verses 
Those  soothing,  gracious  mercies, 
Less  practical,  but  much   more   glorious   than   a 

well-filled  purse  is. 

A  votary  of  Mammon,  I  hustled  round  and  sweat, 
And  helped  'em  run  the   local   on  the   "St.  Jo 

Gazette." 

The  labors  of  the  day  began  at  half-past  eight  A.M., 
For  the  farmers  came  in  early,  and  I  had  to  tackle 
them; 

12 


178  THE  "ST.  JO  GAZETTE." 

And   many  a   noble   bit   of  news  I  managed   to 

acquire 
By  those  discreet  attentions  which  all  farmer-folk 

admire, 

With  my  daily  commentary 
On  affairs  of  farm  and  dairy, 
The  tone  of  which  anon  with  subtle  pufferies  I  'd 

vary,  — 
Oh,  many  a  peck  of  apples  and  of  peaches  did 

I  get 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo 

Gazette." 

Dramatic   news  was  scarce,  but  when  a  minstrel 

show  was  due, 
Why,  Milton  Tootle's  opera  house  was  then  my 

rendezvous ; 
Judge   Grubb  would   give   me   points   about   the 

latest  legal  case, 
And  Dr.  Runcie  let  me  print  his  sermons  when 

I  'd  space ; 

Of  fevers,  fractures,  humors, 
Contusions,  fits,  and  tumors, 


THE    "ST.  JO  GAZETTE."  179 

Would  Dr.  Hall  or  Dr.  Baines  confirm  or  nail  the 

rumors ; 
From   Colonel  Dawes  what   railroad   news   there 

was  I  used  to  get, — 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo 

Gazette." 

For  "  personals  "  the  old  Pacific  House  was  just 

the  place, — 
Pap  Abell  knew  the  pedigrees  of  all  the  human 

race; 
And  when  he  'd  gin  up  all  he  had,  he  'd  drop  a 

subtle  wink, 
And  lead  the   way  where   one  might  wet   one's 

whistle  with  a  drink. 
Those  drinks  at  the  Pacific, 
When  days  were  sudorific, 
Were  what  Parisians  (pray  excuse  my  French !) 

would  call  "  magnifique ;  " 
And    frequently    an    invitation    to   a   meal    I  'd 

get 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo 

Gazette." 


180  THE   "ST.  JO  GAZETTE." 

And  when  in  rainy  weather  news  was   scarce   as 

well  as  slow, 
To   Saxton's   bank  or  Hopkins'   store    for   items 

would  I  go. 
The  jokes  which  Colonel  Saxton   told  were   old, 

but  good  enough 

For  local  application  in  lieu  of  better  stuff; 
And  when  the  ducks  were  flying, 
Or  the  fishing  well  worth  trying  — 
Gosh !    but   those   "  sports "   at    Hopkins'   store 

could  beat  the  world  at  lying ! 
And   I  —  I   printed   all   their   yarns,  though   not 

without  regret, 
When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo 

Gazette." 

For  squibs  political  I  'd  go  to  Col.  Waller  Young, 

Or  Col.  James  N.  Burnes,  the  "  statesman  with  the 
silver  tongue ; " 

Should  some  old  pioneer  take  sick  and  die,  why, 
then  I  'd  call 

On  Frank  M.  Posegate  for  the  "life,"  and  Pose- 
gate  knew  'em  all. 


Atf  i 

0*   TKK 

TTNIVERSI 


THE  "ST.  JO  GAZETTE." 


Lon  Tullar  used  to  pony 
Up  descriptions  that  were  tony 
Of  toilets  worn  at  party,  ball,  or  conversazione; 
For  the  ladies  were  addicted  to  the  style  called 

"deckolett" 

When  I  helped  'em  run  the  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo 
Gazette." 

So  was  I  wont  my  daily  round  of  labor  to  pursue ; 

And  when  came  night  I  found  that  there  was  still 
more  work  to  do,  — 

The  telegraph  to  edit,  yards  and  yards  of  proof 
to  read, 

And  reprint  to  be  gathered  to  supply  the  print- 
ers' greed. 

Oh,  but  it  takes  agility, 
Combined  with  versatility, 

To  run  a  country  daily  with  appropriate  ability ! 

There  never  were  a  smarter  lot  of  editors,  I  '11 
bet, 

Than  we  who  whooped  up  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo 
Gazette." 


182  THE  "ST.  JO  GAZETTE." 

Yes,  maybe  it  was  irksome;  maybe  a  discontent 
Rebellious  rose  amid  the  toil  I  daily  underwent. 
If  so,  I  don't  remember ;  this  only  do  I  know,  — 
My  thoughts  turn  ever  fondly  to  that  time  in  old 

St.  Jo. 

The  years  that  speed  so  fleetly 
Have  blotted  out  completely 
All  else  than  that  which  still  remains  to  solace  me 

so  sweetly; 
The  friendships  of  that  time,  —  ah,  me  !  they  are 

as  precious  yet 
As  when  I  was  a  local  on  the  "  St.  Jo  Gazette." 


IN  AMSTERDAM.  183 


IN   AMSTERDAM. 

TV/TEYNHEER  Hans  Von  Der  Bloom  has  got 

A  majazin  in  Kalverstraat, 
Where  one  may  buy  for  sordid  gold 
Wares  quaint  and  curious,  new  and  old. 
Here  are  antiquities  galore, — 
The  jewels  which  Dutch  monarchs  wore, 
Swords,  teacups,  helmets,  platters,  clocks, 
Bright  Dresden  jars,  dull  Holland  crocks, 
And  all  those  joys  I  might  rehearse 
That  please  the  eye,  but  wreck  the  purse. 

I  most  admired  an  ancient  bed, 
With  ornate  carvings  at  its  head,  — 
A  massive  frame  of  dingy  oak, 
Whose  curious  size  and  mould  bespoke 
Prodigious  age.     "How  much?"  I  cried. 
"Ein  tousand  gildens,"  Hans  replied; 


184  IN  AMSTERDAM. 

And  then  the  honest  Dutchman  said 
A  king  once  owned  that  glorious  bed, — 
King  Fritz  der  Foorst,  of  blessed  fame, 
Had  owned  and  slept  within  the  same  ! 

Then  long  I  stood  and  mutely  gazed, 
By  reminiscent  splendors  dazed, 
And  I  had  bought  it  right  away, 
Had  I  the  wherewithal  to  pay. 
But,  lacking  of  the  needed  pelf, 
I  thus  discoursed  within  myself: 
"  O  happy  Holland !   where  's  the  bliss 
That  can  approximate  to  this 
Possession  of  the  rare  antique 
Which  maniacs  hanker  for  and  seek? 
My  native  land  is  full  of  stuff 
That  's  good,  but  is  not  old  enough. 
Alas  !   it  has  no  oaken  beds 
Wherein  have  slumbered  royal  heads, 
No  relic  on  whose  face  we  see 
The  proof  of  grand  antiquity." 

Thus  reasoned  I  a  goodly  spell 
Until,  perchance,  my  vision  fell 


IN  AMSTERDAM.  185 

Upon  a  trademark  at  the  head 

Of  Fritz  der  Foorst's  old  oaken  bed,  — 

A  rampant  wolverine,  and  round 

This  strange  device  these  words  I  found : 

"  Patent  Antique.     Birkey  &  Gay, 

Grand  Rapids,  Michigan,  U.  S.  A." 

At  present  I  'm  not  saying  much 
About  the  simple,  guileless  Dutch ; 
And  as  it  were  a  loathsome  spot 
I  keep  away  from  Kalverstraat, 
Determined  when  I  want  a  bed 
In  which  hath  slept  a  royal  head 
I  '11  patronize  no  middleman, 
But  deal  direct  with  Michigan. 


186  TO   THE  PASSING  SAINT. 


TO  THE  PASSING   SAINT. 

AS  to-night  you  came  your  way, 

Bearing  earthward  heavenly  joy, 
Tell  me,  O  dear  saint,  I  pray, 
Did  you  see  my  little  boy? 

By  some  fairer  voice  beguiled, 

Once  he  wandered  from  my  sight; 

He  is  such  a  little  child, 

He  should  have  my  love  this  night. 

It  has  been  so  many  a  year, — 
Oh,  so  many  a  year  since  then ! 

Yet  he  was  so  very  dear, 
Surely  he  will  come  again. 

If  upon  your  way  you  see 
One  whose  beauty  is  divine, 

Will  you  send  him  back  to  me? 
He  is  lost,  and  he  is  mine. 


TO   THE  PASSING  SAINT  187 

Tell  him  that  his  little  chair 

Nestles  where  the  sunbeams  meet, 

That  the  shoes  he  used  to  wear 
Yearn  to  kiss  his  dimpled  feet. 

Tell  him  of  each  pretty  toy 

That  was  wont  to  share  his  glee ; 

Maybe  that  will  bring  my  boy 
Back  to  them  and  back  to  me. 

O  dear  saint,  as  on  you  go 

Through  the  glad  and  sparkling  frost, 
Bid  those  bells  ring  high  and  low 

For  a  little  child  that  's  lost ! 

O  dear  saint,  that  blessest  men 
With  the  grace  of  Christmas  joy, 

Soothe  this  heart  with  love  again, — 
Give  me  back  my  little  boy ! 


188  THE  FISHERMAWS  FEAST. 


THE   FISHERMAN'S   FEAST. 

all  the  gracious  gifts  of  Spring, 
Is  there  another  can  surpass 
This  delicate,  voluptuous  thing,  — 

This  dapple-green,  plump-shouldered  bass? 
Upon  a  damask  napkin  laid, 
What  exhalations  superfine 
Our  gustatory  nerves  pervade, 

Provoking  quenchless  thirsts  for  wine  ! 

The  ancients  loved  this  noble  fish; 

And,  coming  from  the  kitchen  fire 
All  piping  hot  upon  a  dish, 

What  raptures  did  he  not  inspire? 
"  Fish  should  swim  twice,"  they  used  to  say,  — 

Once  in  their  native,  vapid  brine, 
And  then  again,  a  better  way  — 

You  understand ;   fetch  on  the  wine  ! 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST.  18Q 

Ah,  dainty  monarch  of  the  flood, 

How  often  have  I  cast  for  you, 
How  often  sadly  seen  you  scud 

Where  weeds  and  water-lilies  grew ! 
How  often  have  you  filched  my  bait, 

How  often  snapped  my  treacherous  line  ! 
Yet  here  I  have  you  on  this  plate,  — 

You  shall  swim  twice,  and  now  in  wine. 

And,  harkee,  gargon !  let  the  blood 

Of  cobwebbed  years  be  spilled  for  him, — 
Ay,  in  a  rich  Burgundian  flood 

This  piscatorial  pride  should  swim; 
So,  were  he  living,  he  would  say 

He  gladly  died  for  me  and  mine, 
And,  as  it  were  his  native  spray, 

He  'd  lash  the  sauce  —  what,  ho  !  the  wine  ! 

I  would  it  were  ordained  for  me 
To  share  your  fate,  O  finny  friend ! 

I  surely  were  not  loath  to  be 
Reserved  for  such  a  noble  end; 


190  THE  FISHERMAN'S  FEAST. 

For  when  old  Chronos,  gaunt  and  grim, 
At  last  reels  in  his  ruthless  line, 

What  were  ray  ecstasy  to  swim 
In  wine,  in  wine,  in  glorious  wine  ! 

Well,  here  's  a  health  to  you,  sweet  Spring ! 

And,  prithee,  whilst  I  stick  to  earth, 
Come  hither  every  year  and  bring 

The  boons  provocative  of  mirth; 
And  should  your  stock  of  bass  run  low, 

However  much  I  might  repine, 
I  think  I  might  survive  the  blow, 

If  plied  with  wine  and  still  more  wine  ! 


NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT.  191 


NIGHTFALL   IN    DORDRECHT. 

HPHE  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  around 

With  steady  and  solemn  creak, 
And  my  little  one  hears  in  the  kindly  sound 

The  voice  of  the  old  mill  speak; 
While  round  and  round  those  big  white  wings 

Grimly  and  ghostlike  creep, 
My  little  one  hears  that  the  old  mill  sings, 

"  Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep  !  " 

The  sails  are  reefed  and  the  nets  are  drawn, 

And  over  his  pot  of  beer 
The  fisher,  against  the  morrow's  dawn, 

Lustily  maketh  cheer; 
He  mocks  at  the  winds  that  caper  along 

From  the  far-off,  clamorous  deep, 
But  we  —  we  love  their  lullaby-song 

Of  "  Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep  ! " 


192  NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT. 

Old  dog  Fritz,  in  slumber  sound, 

Groans  of  the  stony  mart; 
To-morrow  how  proudly  he  '11  trot  you  around, 

Hitched  to  our  new  milk-cart ! 
And  you  shall  help  me  blanket  the  kine, 

And  fold  the  gentle  sheep, 
And  set  the  herring  a-soak  in  brine, — 

But  now,  little  tulip,  sleep  ! 

A  Dream-One  comes  to  button  the  eyes 

That  wearily  droop  and  blink, 
While  the  old  mill  buffets  the  frowning  skies, 

And  scolds  at  the  stars  that  wink; 
Over  your  face  the  misty  wings 

Of  that  beautiful  Dream- One  sweep, 
And,  rocking  your  cradle,  she  softly  sings, 

"  Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep  !  " 


THE  ONION  TART.  193 


THE   ONION   TART. 

tarts  there  be  a  thousand  kinds, 
So  versatile  the  art, 
And,  as  we  all  have  different  minds, 

Each  has  his  favorite  tart; 
But  those  which  most  delight  the  rest 

Methinks  should  suit  me  not: 
The  onion  tart  doth  please  me  best, — 
Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott ! 

Where  but  in  Deutschland  can  be  found 

This  boon  of  which  I  sing? 
Who  but  a  Teuton  could  compound 

This  sui  generis  thing? 
None  with  the  German  frau  can  vie 

In  arts  cuisine,  I  wot, 
Whose  summum  bonum  breeds  the  sigh, 

"Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott !  " 
'3 


194  THE  ONION  TART. 

You  slice  the  fruit  upon  the  dough, 

And  season  to  the  taste, 
Then  in  an  oven  (not  too  slow) 

The  viand  should  be  placed; 
And  when  't  is  done,  upon  a  plate 

You  serve  it  piping  hot, 
Your  nostrils  and  your  eyes  dilate, — 

Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott ! 

It  sweeps  upon  the  sight  and  smell 

In  overwhelming  tide, 
And  then  the  sense  of  taste  as  well 

Betimes  is  gratified  : 
Three  noble  senses  drowned  in  bliss  ! 

I  prithee  tell  me,  what 
Is  there  beside  compares  with  this? 

Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott ! 

For  if  the  fruit  be  proper  young, 
And  if  the  crust  be  good, 

How  shall  they  melt  upon  the  tongue 
Into  a  savory  flood  ! 


THE  ONION  TART.  195 

How  seek  the  Mecca  down  below, 

And  linger  round  that  spot, 
Entailing  weeks  and  months  of  woe, — 

Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott ! 

If  Nature  gives  men  appetites 

For  things  that  won't  digest, 
Why,  let  them  eat  whatso  delights, 

And  let  her  stand  the  rest; 
And  though  the  sin  involve  the  cost 

Of  Carlsbad,  like  as  not 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost,  — 

Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott  ! 

Beyond  the  vast,  the  billowy  tide, 

Where  my  compatriots  dwell, 
All  kinds  of  victuals  have  I  tried, 

All  kinds  of  drinks,  as  well ; 
But  nothing  known  to  Yankee  art 

Appears  to  reach  the  spot 
Like  this  Teutonic  onion  tart, — 

Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott ! 


1Q6  THE  ONION  TART. 

So,  though  I  quaff  of  Carlsbad's  tide 

As  full  as  I  can  hold, 
And  for  complete  reform  inside 

Plank  down  my  horde  of  gold, 
Remorse  shall  not  consume  my  heart, 

Nor  sorrow  vex  my  lot, 
For  I  have  eaten  onion  tart, — 

Ach,  Gott !   mein  lieber  Gott ! 


GRANDMAS  BOMBAZINE.  197 


GRANDMA'S   BOMBAZINE. 

TT  's    everywhere   that  women   fair   invite   and 

please  my  eye, 
And  that  on  dress  I  lay  much  stress  I  can't  and 

sha'n't  deny : 
The  English  dame  who  's  all  aflame  with  divers 

colors  bright, 
The  Teuton  belle,  the  ma'moiselle,  —  all  give  me 

keen  delight; 
And  yet  I  '11  say,  go  where  I  may,  I  never  yet 

have  seen 
A  dress  that 's  quite  as  grand  a  sight  as  was  that 

bombazine. 

Now,  you  must  know  't  was  years  ago  this  quaint 

but  noble  gown 
Flashed   in  one   day,   the   usual   way,   upon   our 

solemn  town. 


198  GRANDMA'S  BOMBAZINE. 

'T  was  Fisk  who  sold  for  sordid  gold  that  gravely 

scrumptious  thing, — 
Jim  Fisk,  the  man  who  drove  a  span  that  would 

have  joyed  a  king,  — 
And   grandma's   eye  fell  with  a   sigh  upon   that 

sombre  sheen, 
And  grandpa's  purse  looked  much  the  worse  for 

grandma's  bombazine. 


Though  ten  years  old,  I  never  told  the  neighbors 
of  the  gown; 

For  grandma  said,  "This  secret,  Ned,  must  not 
be  breathed  in  town." 

The  sitting-room  for  days  of  gloom  was  in  a 
dreadful  mess 

When  that  quaint  dame,  Miss  Kelsey,  came  to 
make  the  wondrous  dress : 

To  fit  and  baste  and  stitch  a  waist,  with  whale- 
bones in  between, 

Is  precious  slow,  as  all  folks  know  who  Ve  made 
a  bombazine. 


GRANDMAS  BOMBAZINE.  199 

With  fortitude  dear  grandma  stood  the   trial   to 

the  end 
(The   nerve   we    find    in    womankind   I   cannot 

comprehend  !)  ; 
And  when  't  was  done  resolved  that  none  should 

guess  at  the  surprise, 
Within  the  press  she  hid  that  dress,  secure  from 

prying  eyes; 
For  grandma  knew  a  thing   or  two,  —  by  which 

remark  I  mean 
That  Sundays  were  the  days  for  her  to  wear  that 

bombazine. 


I  need  not  state  she  got  there  late  \  and,  sailing 

up.  the  aisle 
With  regal   grace,  on   grandma's  face   reposed  a 

conscious  smile. 
It  fitted  so,  above,  below,  and  hung  so  well  all 

round, 
That  there  was  not  one  faulty  spot  a  critic  could 

have  found. 


200  GRANDMAS  BOMBAZINE. 

How  proud  I  was  of  her,  because  she  looked  so 

like  a  queen ! 
And  that  was  why,  perhaps,  that  I  admired   the 

bombazine. 

But   there   were  those,   as   you  'd   suppose,  who 

scorned  that  perfect  gown; 
For  ugly-grained  old  cats  obtained  in  that   New 

England  town : 
The  Widow  White  spat  out  her  spite  in  one  :  "  It 

does  n't  fit ! " 
The    Packard   girls    (they  wore   false   curls)    all 

giggled  like  to  split; 
Sophronia  Wade,  the  sour  old  maid,  she  turned 

a  bilious  green, 
When    she    descried    that    joy    and    pride,    my 

grandma's  bombazine. 

But  grandma  knew,  and  I  did,  too,  that  gown  was 

wondrous  fine, — 
The  envious  sneers  and  jaundiced  jeers  were  a 

conclusive  sign. 


GRANDMAS  BOMBAZINE.  201 

Why,  grandpa  said  it  went  ahead  of  all  the  girls 

in  town, 
And,  saying  this,  he  snatched  a  kiss  that  like  to 

burst  that  gown; 
But,  blushing  red,  my  grandma  said,  "  Oh,  is  n't 

grandpa  mean ! " 
Yet    evermore    my    grandma    wore   his    favorite 

bombazine. 


And  when  she   died  that  sombre   pride  passed 

down  to  heedless  heirs,  — 
Alas,   the    day   't  was    hung    away    beneath   the 

kitchen  stairs ! 
Thence  in  due  time,  with  dust  and  grime,  came 

foes  on  foot  and  wing, 
And   made  their  nests  and  sped  their  guests  in 

that  once  beauteous  thing. 
'T  is  so,  forsooth  !  Time's  envious  tooth  corrodes 

each  human  scene; 
And   so,  at   last,  to   ruin   passed   my   grandma's 

bombazine. 


202  GRANDMAS  BOMBAZINE. 

Yet  to  this  day,  I  'm  proud  to  say,  it  plays  a 
grateful  part, — 

The  thoughts  it  brings  are  of  such  things  as  touch 
and  warm  my  heart. 

This  gown,  my  dear,  you  show  me  here  I  '11  own 
is  passing  fair, 

Though  I  '11  confess  it  's  no  such  dress  as  grand- 
ma used  to  wear. 

Yet  wear  it,  do ;  perchance  when  you  and  I  are 
off  the  scene, 

Our  boy  shall  sing  this  comely  thing  as  /  the 
bombazine. 


RARE  ROAST  BEEF.  20} 


RARE   ROAST   BEEF. 

T  1  7HEN  the  numerous  distempers  to  which  all 

flesh  is  heir 
Torment  us  till  our  very  souls   are   reeking  with 

despair ; 
When    that   monster   fiend,   Dyspepsy,   rears    its 

spectral  hydra  head, 
Filling   bon   vivants    and    epicures   with    certain 

nameless  dread; 

When  any  ill  of  body  or  of  intellect  abounds, 
Be  it  sickness  known  to  Galen  or  disease  unknown 

to  Lowndes,  — 

In  such  a  dire  emergency  it  is  my  firm  belief 
That  there  is  no  diet  quite  so  good  as  rare  roast 

beef. 

And  even  when  the  body  's  in  the  very  prime  of 

health, 
When  sweet  contentment  spreads  upon  the  cheeks 

her  rosy  wealth, 


204  RARE  ROAST  BEEF. 

And  when  a  man  devours   three   meals   per  day 

and  pines  for  more, 
And  growls  because  instead  of  three  square  meals 

there  are  not  four, — 
Well,  even  then,  though  cake  and  pie  do  service 

on  the  side, 

And  coffee  is  a  luxury  that  may  not  be  denied, 
Still  of  the  many  viands  there  is  one  that 's  hailed 

as  chief, 
And  that,  as  you  are  well  aware,  is  rare  roast  beef. 

Some  like  the  sirloin,  rput  I  think  the  porterhouse 

is  best,  — 
'T  is  juicier  and  tenderer  and  meatier  than   the 

rest; 
Put  on  this  roast  a  dash  of  salt,  and  then  of  water 

pour 
Into  the  sizzling  dripping-pan  a  cupful,  and  no 

more; 
The  oven  being  hot,  the  roast  will   cook  in  half 

an  hour; 
Then  to   the  juices  in  the  pan  you  add  a  little 

flour, 


RARE  ROAST  BEEP.  205 

And  so   you  get  a  gravy  that  is  called   the   cap 

sheaf 
Of  that  glorious  summum  bonum,  rare  roast  beef. 

Served  on  a  platter  that  is  hot,  and  carved  with 

thin,  keen  knife, 
How  does  this  savory  viand   enhance   the  worth 

of  life  ! 
Give  me  no  thin  and  shadowy  slice,  but  a  thick 

and  steaming  slab, — 
Who  would   not   choose   a  generous   hunk   to   a 

bloodless  little  dab? 
Upon  a  nice  hot  plate  how  does  the  juicy  morceau 

steam, 

A  symphony  in  scarlet  or  a  red  incarnate  dream  ! 
Take  from   me   eyes  and  ears  and  all,  O  Time, 

thou  ruthless  thief! 
Except  these  teeth  wherewith   to  deal  with  rare 

roast  beef. 

Most  every  kind  and  role  of  modern  victuals  have 

I  tried, 
Including    roasted,    fricasseed,    broiled,    toasted, 

stewed,  and  fried, 


206  RARE  ROAST  BEEP. 

Your  canvasbacks  and  papa-bottes  and  mutton- 
chops  subese, 

Your  patties  a  la  Turkey  and  your  doughnuts 
a  la  grease; 

I  Ve  whirled  away  dyspeptic  hours  with  crabs  in 
marble  halls, 

And  in  the  lowly  cottage  I  Ve  experienced  codfish 
balls; 

But  I  Ve  never  found  a  viand  that  could  so  allay 
all  grief 

And  soothe  the  cockles  of  the  heart  as  rare  roast 
beef. 


I  honor  that   sagacious  king  who,  in   a  grateful 

mood, 
Knighted  the  savory  loin  that  on  the  royal  table 

stood ; 
And  as  for  me  I  'd  ask  no  better  friend  than  this 

good  roast, 
Which  is  my  squeamish  stomach's  fortress  (feste 

Burg)  and  host; 


RARE  ROAST  BEEP.  207 

For  with  this  ally  with  me  I  can  mock  Dyspepsy's 
wrath, 

Can  I  pursue  the  joy  of  Wisdom's  pleasant,  peace- 
ful path. 

So  I  do  off  my  vest  and  let  my  waistband  out  a 
reef 

When  I  soever  set  me  down  to  rare  roast  beef. 


208  GANDERFEATHER'S  GIFT. 


GANDERFEATHER'S   GIFT. 

T  WAS  just  a  little  thing 

When  a  fairy  came  and  kissed  me ; 

Floating  in  upon  the  light 

Of  a  haunted  summer  night, 

Lo !   the  fairies  came  to  sing 

Pretty  slumber  songs,  and  bring 

Certain  boons  that  else  had  missed  me. 

From  a  dream  I  turned  to  see 

What  those  strangers  brought  for  me, 
When  that  fairy  up  and  kissed  me, — 
Here,  upon  this  cheek,  he  kissed  me ! 

Simmerdew  was  there,  but  she 

Did  not  like  me  altogether; 
Daisybright  and  Turtledove, 
Pilfercurds  and  Honeylove, 
Thistleblow  and  Amberglee 
On  that  gleaming,  ghostly  sea 

Floated  from  the  misty  heather, 


GANDERFEATHER^  S  GIFT.  20Q 

And  around  my  trundle-bed 

Frisked  and  looked  and  whispering  said, 
Solemn- like  and  all  together : 
"You  shall  kiss  him,  Ganderfeather  !  " 

Ganderfeather  kissed  me  then, — 

Ganderfeather,  quaint  and  merry ! 
No  attenuate  sprite  was  he, 
But  as  buxom  as  could  be ; 
Kissed  me  twice  and  once  again, 
And  the  others  shouted  when 

On  my  cheek  uprose  a  berry 
Somewhat  like  a  mole,  mayhap, 
But  the  kiss-mark  of  that  chap 

Ganderfeather,  passing  merry, — 

Humorsome  but  kindly,  very ! 

I  was  just  a  tiny  thing 

When  the  prankish  Ganderfeather 
Brought  this  curious  gift  to  me 
With  his  fairy  kisses  three; 
Yet  with  honest  pride  I  sing 
That  same  gift  he  chose  to  bring 


210  GANDERFEATHER'S   GIFT. 

/ 

Out  of  yonder  haunted  heather; 
Other  charms  and  friendships  fly, — 
Constant  friends  this  mole  and  I, 

Who  have  been  so  long  together ! 

Thank  you,  little  Ganderfeather  1 


OLD  TIMES,  OLD  FRIENDS,  OLD  LOVE.     2  1 1 


OLD  TIMES,   OLD    FRIENDS,   OLD    LOVE. 

r  I  "HERE  sue  no  days  like  the  good  old  days, — 

The  days  when  we  were  youthful ! 
When  humankind  were  pure  of  mind, 

And  speech  and  deeds  were  truthful; 
Before  a  love  for  sordid  gold 

Became  man's  ruling  passion, 
And  before  each  dame  and  maid  became 

Slave  to  the  tyrant  fashion  ! 

There  are  no  girls  like  the  good  old  girls,  — 

Against  the  world  I  'd  stake  'em  ! 
As  buxom  and  smart  and  clean  of  heart 

As  the  Lord  knew  how  to  make  'em  ! 
They  were  rich  in  spirit  and  common-sense, 

And  piety  all  supportin' ; 

They    could   bake    and    brew,   and    had    taught 
school,  too, 

And  they  made  such  likely  courtin' ! 


212     OLD  TIMES,  OLD  FRIENDS,  OLD  LOVE. 

There  are  no  boys  like  the  good  old  boys, — 

When  we  were  boys  together ! 
When  the  grass  was  sweet  to  the  brown  bare  feet 

That  dimpled  the  laughing  heather; 
When  the  pewee  sung  to  the  summer  dawn 

Of  the  bee  in  the  billowy  clover, 
Or  down  by  the  mill  the  whip-poor-will 

Echoed  his  night  song  over. 

There  is  no  love  like  the  good  old  love, — 

The  love  that  mother  gave  us ! 
We  are  old,  old  men,  yet  we  pine  again 

For  that  precious  grace,  —  God  save  us  ! 
So  we  dream  and  dream  of  the  good  old  times, 

And  our  hearts  grow  tenderer,  fonder, 
As  those  dear  old  dreams  bring  soothing  gleams 

Of  heaven  away  off  yonder. 


OUR   WHIPPINGS.  213 


OUR  WHIPPINGS. 

,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  awhile  and  talk 
about  the  times 

Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and  I  to 
peddling  rhymes, — 

The  days  when  we  were  little  boys,  as  naughty 
little  boys 

As  ever  worried  home  folks  with  their  everlast- 
ing noise ! 

Egad  !  and  were  we  so  disposed,  I  '11  venture 
we  could  show 

The  scars  of  wallopings  we  got  some  forty  years 
ago; 

What  wallopings  I  mean  I  think  I  need  not 
specify,  - 

Mother's  whippings  did  n't  hurt ;  but  father's,  — 
.  oh,  my  ! 


214  OUR   WHIPPINGS. 

The  way  that  we  played  hookey  those  many 
years  ago, 

We  'd  rather  give  'most  anything  than  have  our 
children  know  ! 

The  thousand  naughty  things  we  did,  the  thou- 
sand fibs  we  told, — 

Why,  thinking  of  them  makes  my  Presbyterian 
blood  run  cold  ! 

How  often  Deacon  Sabine  Morse  remarked  if  we 
were  his 

He  'd  tan  our  "pesky  little  hides  until  the  blis- 
ters riz  "  ! 

It  's  many  a  hearty  thrashing  to  that  Deacon 
Morse  we  owe,  — 

Mother's  whippings  did  n't  count ;  father's  did, 
though  ! 

We  used  to  sneak  off  swimmin'  in  those  careless, 
boyish  days, 

And  come  back  home  of  evenings  with  our  necks 
and  backs  ablaze ; 

How  mother  used  to  wonder  why  our  clothes 
were  full  of  sand, — 

But  father,  having  been  a  boy,  appeared  to  un- 
derstand ; 


OUR   WHIPPINGS.  215 

And   after  tea  he  'd  beckon  us  to  join  him   in 

the  shed, 
Where  he  'd  proceed  to  tinge  our  backs  a  deeper, 

darker  red. 
Say  what  we  will  of  mother's,  there  is  none  will 

controvert 
The  proposition  that  our  father's  lickings  always 

hurt! 

For  mother  was  by  nature  so  forgiving  and  so  mild 
That  she  inclined  to  spare  the  rod  although  she 

spoiled  the  child ; 
And   when   at   last    in    self-defence   she    had  to 

whip  us,  she 
Appeared   to   feel   those  whippings  a   great  deal 

more  than  we  : 
But  how  we  bellowed  and  took  on,  as  if  we  'd 

like  to  die, — 
Poor  mother  really  thought  she  hurt,  and  that  's 

what  made  her  cry ! 
Then   how  we  youngsters   snickered   as   out  the 

door  we  slid, 
For  mother's  whippings  never  hurt,  though  father's 

always  did  ! 


216  OUR   WHIPPINGS. 

In  after  years  poor  father  simmered  down  to 
five  feet  four, 

But  in  our  youth  he  seemed  to  us  in  height  eight 
feet  or  more  ! 

Oh,  how  we  shivered  when  he  quoth  in  cold, 
suggestive  tone : 

"  I  '11  see  you  in  the  woodshed  after  supper  all 
alone  ! " 

Oh,  how  the  legs  and  arms  and  dust  and  trouser- 
buttons  flew, — 

What  florid  vocalisms  marked  that  vesper  inter- 
view ! 

Yes,  after  all  this  lapse  of  years,  I  feelingly  assert, 

With  all  respect  to  mother,  it  was  father's  whip- 
pings hurt ! 

The   little   boy  experiencing  that  tingling  'neath 

his  vest 

Is  often  loath  to  realize  that  all  is  for  the  best; 
Yet,  when  the  boy  gets  older,  he   pictures  with 

delight 
The   bufferings   of  childhood,  —  as  we   do   here 

to-night. 


OUR   WHIPPINGS.  217 

The  years,  the  gracious  years,  have  smoothed 
and  beautified  the  ways 

That  to  our  little  feet  seemed  all  too  rugged  in 
the  days 

Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and  I  to  ped- 
dling rhymes, — 

So,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  awhile  and  think  upon 
those  times. 


218  BION'S  SONG  OF  EROS. 


BION'S  SONG  OF   EROS. 

"PROS  is  the  god  of  love; 

He  and  I  are  hand-in-glove. 
All  the  gentle,  gracious  Muses 

Follow  Eros  where  he  leads, 
And  they  bless  the  bard  who  chooses 
To  proclaim  love's  famous  deeds; 
Him  they  serve  in  rapturous  glee, — 
That  is  why  they  're  good  to  me. 

Sometimes  I  have  gone  astray 
From  love's  sunny,  flowery  way : 
How  I  floundered,  how  I  stuttered  ! 

And,  deprived  of  ways  and  means, 
What  egregious  rot  I  uttered, —     . 

Such  as  suits  the  magazines ! 
I  was  rescued  only  when 
Eros  called  me  back  again. 


EION'S  SONG  OF  EROS.  219 

Gods  forefend  that  I  should  shun 
That  benignant  Mother's  son  ! 
Why,  the  poet  who  refuses 

To  emblazon  love's  delights 
Gets  the  mitten  from  the  Muses, — 
Then  what  balderdash  he  writes  ! 
I  love  Love ;  which  being  so, 
See  how  smooth  my  verses  flow ! 

Gentle  Eros,  lead  the  way, — 
I  will  follow  while  I  may : 

Be  thy  path  by  hill  or  hollow, 

I  will  follow  fast  and  free ; 
And  when  I  'm  too  old  to  follow, 

I  will  sit  and  sing  of  thee, — 
Potent  still  in  intellect, 
Sit,  and  sing,  and  retrospect. 


220  MR.  BILLINGS  OP  LOUISVILLE. 


MR.  BILLINGS   OF   LOUISVILLE. 

'T'HERE    are    times   in   one's   life   which   one 

cannot  forget; 

And  the  time  I  remember  's  the  evening  I  met 
A  haughty  young  scion  of  bluegrass  renown 
Who  made  my   acquaintance  while   painting   the 

town: 

A  handshake,  a  cocktail,  a  smoker,  and  then 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

There  flowed  in  his  veins  the  blue  blood  of  the 

South, 

And  a  cynical  smile  curled  his  sensuous  mouth; 
He  quoted  from  Lanier  and  Poe  by  the  yard, 
But  his  purse  had  been  hit  by  the  war,  and  hit 

hard : 

I  felt  that  he  honored  and  flattered  me  when 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 


MR.  BILLINGS  OP  LOUISVILLE.  221 

I  wonder  that  never  again  since  that  night 
A  vision  of  Billings  has  hallowed  my  sight; 
I  pine  for  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  thrill 
That  comes  with  the  touch  of  a  ten-dollar  bill : 
I  wonder  and  pine;   for  —  I  say  it  again  — 
Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten. 

I  've  heard  what  old  Whittier  sung  of  Miss  Maud ; 
But  all  such  philosophy  's  nothing  but  fraud ; 
To  one  who  's  a  bear  in  Chicago  to-day, 
With  wheat  going  up,  and  the  devil  to  pay, 
These  words  are  the  saddest  of  tongue  or  of  pen : 
"  Mr.  Billings  of  Louisville  touched  me  for  ten." 


222  POET  AND  KING. 


POET   AND    KING. 

T^HOUGH  I  am  king,  I  have  no  throne 
Save  this  rough  wooden  siege  alone ; 
I  have  no  empire,  yet  my  sway 
Extends  a  myriad  leagues  away; 
No  servile  vassal  bends  his  knee 
In  grovelling  reverence  to  me, 
Yet  at  my  word  all  hearts  beat  high, 
And  there  is  fire  in  every  eye, 
And  love  and  gratitude  they  bring 
As  tribute  unto  me,  a  king. 

The  folk  that  throng  the  busy  street 
Know  not  it  is  a  king  they  meet; 
And  I  am  glad  there  is  not  seen 
The  monarch  in  my  face  and  mien. 
I  should  not  choose  to  be  the  cause 
Of  fawning  or  of  coarse  applause : 


POET  AND  KING.  223 

I  am  content  to  know  the  arts 
Wherewith  to  lord  it  o'er  their  hearts; 
For  when  unto  their  hearts  I  sing, 
I  am  a  king,  I  am  a  king ! 

My  sceptre,  —  see,  it  is  a  pen  ! 
Wherewith  I  rule  these  hearts  of  men. 
Sometime  it  pleaseth  to  beguile 
Its  monarch  fancy  with  a  smile; 
Sometime  it  is  athirst  for  tears : 
And  so  adown  the  laurelled  years 
I  walk,  the  noblest  lord  on  earth, 
Dispensing  sympathy  and  mirth. 
Aha !   it  is  a  magic  thing 
That  makes  me  what  I  am,  —  a  king  1 

Let  empires  crumble  as  they  may, 
Proudly  I  hold  imperial  sway; 
The  sunshine  and  the  rain  of  years 
Are  human  smiles  and  human  tears 
That  come  or  vanish  at  my  call, — 
I  am  the  monarch  of  them  all ! 


224  POET  AND  KING. 

Mindful  alone  of  this  am  I : 
The  songs  I  sing  shall  never  die ; 
Not  even  envious  Death  can  wring 
His  glory  from  so  great  a  king. 

Come,  brother,  be  a  king  with  me, 
And  rule  mankind  eternally; 
Lift  up  the  weak,  and  cheer  the  strong, 
Defend  the  truth,  combat  the  wrong ! 
You  '11  find  no  sceptre  like  the  pen 
To  hold  and  sway  the  hearts  of  men ; 
Its  edicts  flow  in  blood  and  tears 
That  will  outwash  the  flood  of  years: 
So,  brother,  sing  your  songs,  oh,  sing ! 
And  be  with  me  a  king,  a  king ! 


LYDIA  DICK.  225 


LYDIA   DICK. 

1 1  7HEN  I  was  a  boy  at  college, 

Filling  up  with  classic  knowledge, 

Frequently  I  wondered  why 
Old  Professor  Demas  Bentley 
Used  to  praise  so  eloquently 

"Opera  Horatii." 

Toiling  on  a  season  longer 

Till  my  reasoning  powers  got  stronger, 

As  my  observation  grew, 
I  became  convinced  that  mellow, 
Massic-loving  poet  fellow, 

Horace,  knew  a  thing  or  two. 

Yes,  we  sophomores  figured  duly 
That,  if  we  appraised  him  truly, 
15 


226  LYDIA  DICK, 


Horace  must  have  been  a  brick; 
And  no  wonder  that  with  ranting 
Rhymes  he  went  a-gallivanting 

Round  with  sprightly  Lydia  Dick ! 

For  that  pink  of  female  gender 
Tall  and  shapely  was,  and  slender, 

Plump  of  neck  and  bust  and  arms ; 
While  the  raiment  that  invested 
Her  so  jealously  suggested 

Certain  more  potential  charms. 

Those  dark  eyes  of  hers  that  fired  him, 
Those  sweet  accents  that  inspired  him, 

And  her  crown  of  glorious  hair, — 
These  things  baffle  my  description : 
I  should  have  a  fit  conniption 

If  I  tried ;  so  I  forbear. 

Maybe  Lydia  had  her  betters; 
Anyway,  this  man  of  letters 

Took  that  charmer  as  his  pick. 
Glad  —  yes,  glad  I  am  to  know  it ! 
J,  a  fin  de  siecle  poet, 

Sympathize  with  Lydia  Dick  ! 


LYDIA  DICK.  227 


Often  in  my  arbor  shady 
I  fall  thinking  of  that  lady, 

And  the  pranks  she  used  to  play; 
And  I  'm  cheered,  —  for  all  we  sages 
Joy  when  from  those  distant  ages 

Lydia  dances  down  our  way. 

Otherwise  some  folks  might  wonder, 
With  good  reason,  why  in  thunder 

Learned  professors,  dry  and  prim, 
Find  such  solace  in  the  giddy 
Pranks  that  Horace  played  with  Liddy 

Or  that  Liddy  played  on  him. 

Still  this  world  of  ours  rejoices 
In  those  ancient  singing  voices, 

And  our  hearts  beat  high  and  quick, 
To  the  cadence  of  old  Tiber 
Murmuring  praise  of  roistering  Liber 

And  of  charming  Lydia  Dick. 

Still  Digentia,  downward  flowing, 
Prattleth  to  the  roses  blowing 


228  LYDIA  DICK. 


By  the  dark,  deserted  grot. 
Still  Soracte,  looming  lonely, 
Watcheth  for  the  coming  only 

Of  a  ghost  that  cometh  not. 


UZZIE.  229 


LIZZIE. 

T  WONDER  ef  all  wimmin  air 

Like  Lizzie  is  when  we  go  out 
To  theaters  an'  concerts  where 

Is  things  the  papers  talk  about. 
Do  other  wimmin  fret  an'  stew 

Like  they  wuz  bein*  crucified, — 
Frettin'  a  show  or  concert  through, 

With  wonderin'  ef  the  baby  cried? 

Now  Lizzie  knows  that  gran'ma  's  there 

To  see  that  everything  is  right; 
Yet  Lizzie  thinks  that  gran'ma's  care 

Ain't  good  enuff  f  r  baby,  quite. 
Yet  what  am  I  to  answer  when 

She  kind  uv  fidgets  at  my  side, 
An*  asks  me  every  now  an*  then, 

"  I  wonder  ef  the  baby  cried  "  ? 


230  LIZZIE. 


Seems  like  she  seen  two  little  eyes 

A-pinin'  f  r  their  mother's  smile ; 
Seems  like  she  heern  the  pleadin'  cries 

Uv  one  she  thinks  uv  all  the  while; 
An'  so  she  's  sorry  that  she  come. 

An'  though  she  allus  tries  to  hide 
The  truth,  she  'd  ruther  stay  to  hum 

Than  wonder  ef  the  baby  cried. 

Yes,  wimmin  folks  is  all  alike  — 

By  Lizzie  you  kin  jedge  the  rest; 
There  never  wuz  a  little  tyke, 

But  that  his  mother  loved  him  best. 
And  nex'  to  bein'  what  I  be  — 

The  husband  uv  my  gentle  bride  — 
I  'd  wisht  I  wuz  that  croodlin'  wee, 

With  Lizzie  wonderin'  ef  I  cried. 


LITTLE  HOMER'S   SLATE.  23 1 


LITTLE   HOMER'S   SLATE. 

A  FTER  dear  old  grandma  died, 

Hunting  through  an  oaken  chest 
In  the  attic,  we  espied 

What  repaid  our  childish  quest: 
'T  was  a  homely  little  slate, 
Seemingly  of  ancient  date. 

On  its  quaint  and  battered  face 

Was  the  picture  of  a  cart 
Drawn  with  all  that  awkward  grace 

Which  betokens  childish  art. 
But  what  meant  this  legend,  pray : 
"Homer  drew  this  yesterday"? 

Mother  recollected  then 

What  the  years  were  fain  to  hide : 
She  was  but  a  baby  when 

Little  Homer  lived  and  died. 
Forty  years,  so  mother  said, 
Little  Homer  had  been  dead. 


232  LITTLE  HOMER'S  SLATE. 

This  one  secret  through  those  years 
Grandma  kept  from  all  apart, 

Hallowed  by  her  lonely  tears 
And  the  breaking  of  her  heart ; 

While  each  year  that  sped  away 

Seemed  to  her  but  yesterday. 

So  the  homely  little  slate 

Grandma's  baby's  ringers  pressed, 

To  a  memory  consecrate, 
Lieth  in  the  oaken  chest, 

Where,  unwilling  we  should  know, 

Grandma  put  it  years  ago. 


ALWAYS  RIGHT.  233 


ALWAYS   RIGHT. 

TTVON'T  take  on  so,  Hiram, 

But  do  what  you  're  told  to  do ; 
It 's  fair  to  suppose  that  yer  mother  knows 

A  heap  sight  more  than  you. 
I  '11  allow  that  sometimes  her  way 

Don't  seem  the  wisest,  quite ; 
But  the  easiest  way, 
When  she  's  had  her  say, 

Is  to  reckon  yer  mother  is  right. 

Courted  her  ten  long  winters, 

Saw  her  to  singin'-school ; 
When  she  went  down  one  spell  to  town, 

I  cried  like  a  durned  ol'  fool ; 
Got  mad  at  the  boys  for  callin' 

When  I  sparked  her  Sunday  night : 
But  she  said  she  knew 
A  thing  or  two, — 

An'  I  reckoned  yer  mother  wuz  right. 


234  ALWAYS  RIGHT. 


I  courted  till  I  wuz  aging, 

And  she  wuz  past  her  prime, — 
I  'd  have  died,  I  guess,  if  she  had  n't  said  yes 

When  I  popped  f'r  the  hundredth  time. 
Said  she  'd  never  have  took  me 

If  I  had  n't  stuck  so  tight ; 
Opined  that  we 
Could  never  agree, — 

And  I  reckon  yer  mother  wuz  right ! 


"TROT,  MY  GOOD  STEED,    TROT!"       235 


TROT,  MY   GOOD   STEED,  TROT!" 

"1 1  7HERE  my  true  love  abideth 
I  make  my  way  to-night ; 
Lo  !   waiting,  she 
Espieth  me, 
And  calleth  in  delight : 
"I  see  his  steed  anear 
Come  trotting  with  my  dear,  — 
Oh,  idle  not,  good  steed,  but  trot, 
Trot  thou  my  lover  here  ! " 

Aloose  I  cast  the  bridle, 

And  ply  the  whip  and  spur; 
And  gayly  I 
Speed  this  reply, 
While  faring  on  to  her: 
"  Oh,  true  love,  fear  thou  not ! 
I  seek  our  trysting  spot; 
And  double  feed  be  yours,  my  steed, 
If  you  more  swiftly  trot." 


TROT,   MY  GOOD  STEED,    TROT! 


I  vault  from  out  the  saddle, 
And  make  my  good  steed  fast; 
Then  to  my  breast 
My  love  is  pressed,  — 
At  last,  true  heart,  at  last  ! 
The  garden  drowsing  lies, 
The  stars  fold  down  their  eyes,  — 
In  this  dear  spot,  my  steed,  neigh  not, 
Nor  stamp  in  restless  wise  ! 

O  passing  sweet  communion 

Of  young  hearts,  warm  and  true  ! 
To  thee  belongs 
The  old,  old  songs 
Love  finds  forever  new. 
We  sing  those  songs,  and  then 
Cometh  the  moment  when 
It  's,  "  Good  steed,  trot  from  this  dear  spot, 
Trot,  trot  me  home  again  !  " 


PROVIDENCE  AND  THE  DOG.  23  7 


PROVIDENCE   AND   THE   DOG. 

"I  T  7HEN   I  was  young  and  callow,  which  was 

many  years  ago, 
Within    me    the    afflatus    went    surging    to    and 

fro; 
And  so  I  wrote  a  tragedy  that  fairly  reeked  with 

gore, 
With  every  act  concluding  with  the  dead  piled  on 

the  floor, — 
A  mighty  effort,  by  the  gods !    and  after  I  had 

read 
The   manuscript   to   Daly,   that   dramatic   censor 

said : 
"The    plot    is    most    exciting,   and   I   like    the 

dialogue ; 
You  should  take  the  thing  to  Providence,  and  try 

it  on  a  dog." 


238  PROVIDENCE  AND   THE  DOG. 

McCambridge  organized  a  troupe,  including  many 

a  name 
Unknown  alike  to  guileless  me,  to  riches,  and  to 

fame. 
A  pompous  man  whose  name  was  Rae  was  Nestor 

of  this  troupe,  — 
Amphibious,  he  was  quite  at  home  outside  or  in 

the  soup  ! 
The  way  McCambridge  billed  him  !     Why,  such 

dreams  in  red  and  green 
Had  ne'er  before  upon  the  boards  of  Yankeedom 

been  seen; 
And  my  proud  name  was  heralded,  —  oh  that  I  'd 

gone  incog. 
When  we  took  that  play  to  Providence  to  try  it 

on  a  dog ! 

Shall   I    forget    the    awful   day   we    struck    that 

wretched  town? 
Yet  in  what   melting   irony   the   treacherous   sun 

beamed  down  ! 
The  sale  of  seats  had  not  been  large ;   but  then 

McCambridge  said 
The  factory  people  seldom  bought  their  seats  so 

far  ahead, 


PROVIDENCE  AND   THE  DOG.  2}9 

And  Rae  indorsed  McCambridge.     So  they  partly 

set  at  rest 
The  natural  misgivings  that  perturbed  my  youthful 

breast ; 
For  I  wondered  and  lamented  that  the  town  was 

not  agog 
When  I  took  my  play  to  Providence  to  try  it  on 

a  dog. 

They  never  came  at  all,  —  aha  !   I  knew  it  all  the 

time,  — 
They  never  came   to   see   and  hear  my  tragedy 

sublime. 
Oh,  fateful  moment  when  the  curtain  rose  on  act 

the  first ! 
Oh,  moment  fateful  to  the  soul  for  wealth  and 

fame  athirst ! 
But  lucky  factory  girls  and  boys  to  stay  away  that 

night, 
When   the   author's  fervid  soul   was   touched   by 

disappointment's  blight,  — 
When  desolation  settled  down  on  me  like  some 

dense  fog 
For  having  tempted  Providence,  and  tried  it  on 

a  dog  ! 


240  PROVIDENCE  AND   THE  DOG. 

Those  actors  did  n't  know  their  parts ;  they  maun- 
dered to  and  fro, 

Ejaculating  platitudes  that  were  quite  malapropos; 

And  when  I  sought  to  reprimand  the  graceless 
scamps,  the  lot 

Turned  fiercely  on  me,  and  denounced  my  charm- 
ing play  as  rot. 

I  might  have  stood  their  bitter  taunts  without  a 
passing  grunt, 

If  I  'd  had  a  word  of  solace  from  the  people  out 
in  front; 

But  that  chilly  corporal's  guard  sat  round  like 
bumps  upon  a  log 

When  I  played  that  play  at  Providence  with 
designs  upon  the  dog. 

We   went  with   lots   of  baggage,  but  we  did  n't 

bring  it  back, — 
For  who  would  be  so  hampered  as  he  walks  a 

railway  track? 
"  Oh,  ruthless  muse  of  tragedy !  what   prodigies 

of  shame, 
What  marvels  of  injustice  are  committed  in  thy 

name  ! " 


PROVIDENCE  AND   THE  DOG.  241 

Thus  groaned  I  in  the  spirit,  as  I  strode  what 

stretch  of  ties 
Twixt  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  and  my  native 

Gotham  lies ; 
But  Rae,  McCambridge,  and  the  rest  kept  up  a 

steady  jog, — 
'T  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  plied  their  arts 

upon  the  dog. 

So  much  for  my  first  battle  with  the  fickle  god- 
dess, Fame,  — 

And  I  hear  that  some  folks  nowadays  are  faring 
just  the  same. 

Oh,  hapless  he  that  on  the  graceless  Yankee  dog 
relies ! 

The  dog  fares  stout  and  hearty,  and  the  play  it 
is  that  dies. 

So  ye  with  tragedies  to  try,  I  beg  of  you,  beware  ! 

Put  not  your  trust  in  Providence,  that  most  delu- 
sive snare ; 

Cast,  if  you  will,  your  pearls  of  thought  before 
the  Western  hog, 

But  never  go  to  Providence  to  try  it  on  a  dog. 
16 


242  GETTIN*   ON. 


GETTIN'   ON. 

HEN  I  wuz  somewhat  younger, 

I  wuz  reckoned  purty  gay; 
I  had  my  fling  at  everything 

In  a  rollickin',  coltish  way. 
But  times  have  strangely  altered 

Since  sixty  years  ago  — 
This  age  of  steam  an'  things  don't  seem 

Like  the  age  I  used  to  know. 
Your  modern  innovations 

Don't  suit  me,  I  confess, 
As  did  the  ways  of  the  good  oF  days, — 

But  I  'm  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 

I  set  on  the  piazza., 

An'  hitch  round  with  the  sun; 
Sometimes,  mayhap,  I  take  a  nap, 

Waitin'  till  school  is  done. 


GETTIN^   ON.  243 


An'  then  I  tell  the  children 

The  things  I  done  in  youth,  — 
An'  near  as  I  can,  as  a  vener'ble  man, 

I  stick  to  the  honest  truth, — 
But  the  looks  of  them  'at  listen 

Seem  sometimes  to  express 
The  remote  idee  that  I  'm  gone  —  you  see?  — 

An'  I  am  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 


I  get  up  in  the  mornin', 

An',  nothin'  else  to  do, 
Before  the  rest  are  up  an'  dressed, 

I  read  the  papers  through. 
I  hang  round  with  the  women 

All  day  an*  hear  'em  talk ; 
An'  while  they  sew  or  knit  I  show 

The  baby  how  to  walk. 
An',  somehow,  I  feel  sorry 

When  they  put  away  his  dress 
An'  cut  his  curls  ('cause  they  're  like  a  girl's  !) 

I  'm  gettin'  on,  I  guess. 


244  GETTIN^   ON. 


Sometimes,  with  twilight  round  me, 

I  see,  or  seem  to  see, 
A  distant  shore  where  friends  of  yore 

Linger  an'  watch  for  me. 
Sometimes  I  Ve  heered  'em  callin' 

So  tender-like  'nd  low 
That  it  almost  seemed  like  a  dream  I  dreamed, 

Or  an  echo  of  long  ago; 
An'  sometimes  on  my  forehead 

There  falls  a  soft  caress, 
Or  the  touch  of  a  hand,  —  you  understand,  — 

I  'm  gettin*  on,  I  guess. 


THE  SCHNELLEST  ZUG.  245 


THE   SCHNELLEST  ZUG. 

T^ROM  Hanover  to  Leipzig  is  but  a  little  way, 
Yet  the  journey  by  the  so-called  schnellest 

zug  consumes  a  day ; 
You    start   at   half- past   ten    or   so,  and  not  till 

nearly  night 
Do   the   double   towers  of  Magdeburg   loom   up 

before  your  sight; 
From  thence    to    Leipzig  's  quick    enough,  —  of 

that  I  '11  not  complain, — 
But    from     Hanover    to    Magdeburg  —  confound 

that  schnellest  train  ! 

The  Germans  say  that  "schnell"  means  fast,  and 

"schnellest"  faster  yet, — 
In  all  my  life  no  grimmer  bit  of  humor  have  I 

met! 
Why,  thirteen  miles  an  hour  's  the  greatest  speed 

they  ever  go, 


246  THE  SCHNELLEST  ZUG. 

While    on    the   engine  piston-rods  do  moss   and 

lichens  grow; 
And  yet  the  average  Teuton  will  presumptuously 

maintain 
That  one  can't  know  what  swiftness  is  till  he  's 

tried  das  schnellest  train ! 

Fool  that  I  was  !  I  should  have  walked,  —  I  had 
no  time  to  waste ; 

The  little  journey  I  had  planned  I  had  to  do  in 
haste,  — 

The  quaint  old  town  of  Leipzig  with  its  literary 
mart, 

And  Dresden  with  its  crockery-shops  and  won- 
drous wealth  of  art, 

The  Saxon  Alps,  the  Carlsbad  cure  for  all  dys- 
peptic pain, — 

These  were  the  ends  I  had  in  view  when  I  took 
that  schnellest  train. 

The  natives  dozed  around  me,  yet  none  too  deep 

to  hear 
The   guard's   sporadic  shout  of  "funf  minuten" 

(meaning  beer)  ; 


THE  SCHNELLEST  ZUG  247 

I  counted  forty  times  at  least  that  voice  an- 
nounce the  stops 

Required  of  those  fat  natives  to  glut  their  greed 
for  hops, 

Whilst  /  crouched  in  a  corner,  a  monument  to  woe, 

And  thought  unholy,  awful  things,  and  felt  my 
whiskers  grow ! 

And  then,  the  wretched  sights  one  sees  while 
travelling  by  that  train,  — 

The  women  doing  men- folks'  work  at  harvesting 
the  grain, 

Or  sometimes  grubbing  in  the  soil,  or  hitched  to 
heavy  carts 

Beside  the  family  cow  or  dog,  doing  their  slavish 
parts  ! 

The  husbands  strut  in  soldier  garb,  —  indeed 
they  were  too  vain 

To  let  creation  see  them  work  from  that  creep- 
ing schnellest  train ! 

I  found  the  German  language  all  too  feeble  to 

convey 
The  sentiments  that  surged  through  my  dyspeptic 

hulk  that  day; 


248  THE  SCHNELLEST  ZUG. 

I  had  recourse  to  English,  and  exploded  without 

stint 
Such   virile   Anglo-Saxon   as  would   never  do   in 

print, 
But  which  assuaged  my  rising  gorge  and  cooled 

my  seething  brain 
While  snailing  on  to  Magdeburg  upon  that  schnel- 

lest  train. 


The  typical  New  England  freight  that  maunders 

to  and  fro, 
The  upper   Mississippi   boats,  the   bumptious  B. 

&  O., 
The  creeping  Southern  railroads  with  their  other 

creeping  things, 
The  Philadelphy  cable  that  is  run  out  West  for 

rings, 
The  Piccadilly  'buses  with  their  constant  roll  and 

shake,  — 
All  have  I  tried,  and  yet  I  'd  give  the  "  schnel- 

lest  zug  "  the  cake ! 


THE  SCHNELLEST  ZUG.  249 

My   countrymen,    if   ever   you    should    seek    the 

German  clime, 
Put  not  your  trust  in  Baedeker  if  you  are  pressed 

for  time ; 
From   Hanover  to   Magdeburg   is  many  a  weary 

mile 
By  "  schnellest  zug, "  but  done  afoot  it  seems  a 

tiny  while; 
Walk,  swim,  or  skate,  and  then  the  task  will  not 

appear  in  vain, 
But  you  '11  break  the  third  commandment  if  you 

take  the  schnellest  train ! 


250  BETHLEHEM-TOWN. 


BETHLEHEM-TOWN. 

AS  I  was  going  to  Bethlehem-town, 
Upon  the  earth  I  cast  me  down 
All  underneath  a  little  tree 
That  whispered  in  this  wise  to  me  : 
"  Oh,  I  shall  stand  on  Calvary 
And  bear  what  burthen  saveth  thee  ! " 

As  up  I  fared  to  Bethlehem-town, 

I  met  a  shepherd  coming  down, 

And  thus  he  quoth :  "  A  wondrous  sight 

Hath  spread  before  mine  eyes  this  night, 

An  angel  host  most  fair  to  see, 

That  sung  full  sweetly  of  a  tree 

That  shall  uplift  on  Calvary 

What  burthen  saveth  you  and  me  !  " 

And  as  I  gat  to  Bethlehem-town, 
Lo  !  wise  men  came  that  bore  a  crown. 
"Is  there,"  cried  I,  "in  Bethlehem 
A  King  shall  wear  this  diadem?" 


BE  THLEHEM-  TO  WN.  251 

"  Good  sooth,"  they  quoth,  "  and  it  is  He 

That  shall  be  lifted  on  the  tree 

And  freely  shed  on  Calvary 

What  blood  redeemeth  us  and  thee  ! " 

Unto  a  Child  in  Bethlehem-town 
The  wise  men  came  and  brought  the  crown; 
And  while  the  infant  smiling  slept, 
Upon  their  knees  they  fell  and  wept; 
But,  with  her  babe  upon  her  knee, 
Naught  recked  that  Mother  of  the  tree, 
That  should  uplift  on  Calvary 
What  burthen  saveth  all  and  me. 

Again  I  walk  in  Bethlehem- town 

And  think  on  Him  that  wears  the  crown. 

I  may  not  kiss  His  feet  again, 

Nor  worship  Him  as  did  I  then; 

My  King  hath  died  upon  the  tree, 

And  hath  outpoured  on  Calvary 

What  blood  redeemeth  you  and  me ! 


252         THE  PEACE  OF  CHRISTMAS-TIME. 


THE   PEACE   OF   CHRISTMAS-TIME. 

1P\EAREST,  how  hard  it  is  to  say 

That  all  is  for  the  best, 
Since,  sometimes,  in  a  grievous  way 
God's  will  is  manifest. 

See  with  what  hearty,  noisy  glee 

Our  little  ones  to-night 
Dance  round  and  round  our  Christmas-tree 

With  pretty  toys  bedight. 

Dearest,  one  voice  they  may  not  hear, 
One  face  they  may  not  see, — 

Ah,  what  of  all  this  Christmas  cheer 
Cometh  to  you  and  me? 

Cometh  before  our  misty  eyes 

That  other  little  face; 
And  we  clasp,  in  tender,  reverent  wise, 

That  love  in  the  old  embrace. 


THE  PEACE  OF  CHRISTMAS-TIME.         253 

Dearest,  the  Christ- Child  walks  to-night, 

Bringing  His  peace  to  men; 
And  He  bringeth  to  you  and  to  me  the  light 

Of  the  old,  old  yeais  again : 

Bringeth  the  peace  of  long  ago 

When  a  wee  one  clasped  your  knee 

And    lisped    of    the    morrow,  —  dear   one,   you 

know,  — 
And  here  come  back  is  he ! 

Dearest,  't  is  sometimes  hard  to  say 

That  all  is  for  the  best, 
For,  often  in  a  grievous  way, 

God's  will  is  manifest. 

But  in  the  grace  of  this  holy  night 

That  bringeth  us  back  our  child, 
Let  us  see  that  the  ways  of  God  are  right, 

And  so  be  reconciled. 


254  THE  DOINGS  OP  DELSARTE. 


THE   DOINGS   OF   DELSARTE. 

TN  former  times  my  numerous   rhymes   excited 

general  mirth, 

And  I  was  then  of  all   good   men   the   merriest 
man  on  earth; 

And  my  career 
From  year  to  year 
Was  full  of  cheer 

And  things, 

Despite  a  few  regrets,  perdieu !  which  grim  dys- 
pepsia brings; 
But   now  how  strange  and   harsh   a  change   has 

come  upon  the  scene  ! 
Horrors  appall  the  life  where  all  was  formerly  so 

serene : 
Yes,  wasting  care  hath  cast  its   snare   about   my 

honest  heart, 

Because,  alas  !  it  hath  come  to  pass  my  daughter  's 
learned  Delsarte. 


THE  DOINGS  OP  DELSARTE.  255 

In  flesh  and  joint  and  every  point  the  counter- 
part of  me, 

She  grew  so  fast  she  grew  at  last  a  marvellous 
thing  to  see,  — 

Long,  gaunt,  and  slim,  each  gangling  limb  played 
stumbling-block  to  t'  other, 

The  which  excess  of  awkwardness  quite  mortified 
her  mother. 

Now,  as  for  me,  I  like  to  see  the  carriages  un- 
couth 

Which  certify  to  all  the  shy,  unconscious  age  of 
youth. 

If  maidenkind  be  pure  of  mind,  industrious,  tidy, 
smart, 

What  need  that  they  should  fool  away  their  youth 
upon  Delsarte? 


In   good   old   times  my  numerous  rhymes   occa- 
sioned general  mirth, 
But  now  you  see 

Revealed  in  me 

The  gloomiest  bard  on  earth. 


256  THE  DOINGS  OF  DELSARTE. 

I  sing  no  more  of  the  joys  of  yore  that  marked 

my  happy  life, 
But  rather  those  depressing  woes  with  which  the 

present  's  rife. 
Unreconciled  to  that   gaunt   child,  who  's  now  a 

fashion-plate, 
One  song  I  raise  in  Art's  dispraise,  and  so  do  I 

fight  with  Fate: 
This  gangling  bard  has  found  it  hard  to  see  his 

counterpart 
Long,  loose,  and  slim,  divorced  from  him  by  that 

hectic  dude,  Delsarte. 

Where'er  she  goes, 
She  loves  to  pose, 
In  classic  attitudes, 

And  droop   her  eyes   in  languid  wise,  and  feign 
abstracted  moods; 

And  she,  my  child, 
Who  all  so  wild, 
So  helpless  and  so  sweet, 
That  once  she  knew  not  what  to  do  with  those 

great  big  hands  and  feet, 

Now  comes  and  goes  with  such  repose,  so  calmly 
sits  or  stands, 


THE  DOINGS  OF  DELSARTE.  257 

Is  so  discreet  with  both  her  feet,  so  deft  with  both 

her  hands. 
Why,  when  I  see   that   satire   on  me,  I  give  an 

angry  start, 
And  I  utter  one  word  —  it  is  commonly  heard  — 

derogatory  to  Delsarte. 

In  years  gone  by  't  was  said  that  I  was  quite  a 

scrumptious  man ; 
Conceit  galore  had  I  before  this   Delsarte   craze 

began ; 
But  now  these  wise 

Folks  criticise 

My  figure  and  my  face, 
And  I  opine   they  even   incline   to   sneer  at  my 

musical  bass. 
Why,  sometimes   they  presume   to   say  this  wart 

upon  my  cheek 
Is  not  refined,  and  remarks  unkind  they  pass  on 

that  antique,  — 
With  lusty  bass  and   charms  of  face    and  figure 

will  I  part 
Ere  they  extort  this  grand   old  wart   to   placate 

their  Delsarte. 

17 


258  THE  DOINGS  OF  DELSARTE. 

Oh,  wretched  day  !  as  all  shall  say  who  Ve  known 

my  Muse  before, 
When  by  this  rhyme  you  see  that  I  'm  not  in  it 

any  more. 
Good-by  the  mirth  that  over  earth  diffused  such 

keen  delight; 
The  old-time  bard 

Of  pork  and  lard 

Is  plainly  out  of  sight. 
All  withered  now  about  his  brow  the  laurel  fillets 

droop, 
While  Lachesis  brews 

For  the  poor  old  Muse 

A  portion  of  scalding  soup. 
Engrave  this  line,  O  friends  of  mine  !   over  my 

broken  heart : 

"  He  hustled  and  strove,  and  fancied  he  throve, 
till  his  daughter  learned  Delsarte." 


BUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT.      259 


BUTTERCUP,   POPPY,   FORGET-ME-NOT. 

"DUTTERCUP,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not,— 

These  three  bloomed  in  a  garden  spot ; 
And  once,  all  merry  with  song  and  play, 
A  little  one  heard  three  voices  say : 
"  Shine  or  shadow,  summer  or  spring, 
O  thou  child  with  the  tangled  hair 
And  laughing  eyes,  we  three  shall  bring 

Each  an  offering,  passing  fair ! " 
The  little  one  did  not  understand; 
But  they  bent  and  kissed  the  dimpled  hand. 

Buttercup  gambolled  all  day  long, 
Sharing  the  little  one's  mirth  and  song ; 
Then,  stealing  along  on  misty  gleams, 
Poppy  came,  bringing  the  sweetest  dreams,  — 


260     BUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

Playing  and  dreaming,  that  was  all, 

Till  once  the  sleeper  would  not  awake ; 
Kissing  the  little  face  under  the  pall, 

We  thought  of  the  words    the    third  flower 

spake, 

And  we  found,  betimes,  in  a  hallowed  spot, 
The  solace  and  peace  of  Forget-me-not. 

Buttercup  shareth  the  joy  of  day, 

Glinting  with  gold  the  hours  of  play ; 

Bringeth  the  Poppy  sweet  repose, 

When  the  hands  would  fold  and  the  eyes  would 

close. 
And  after  it  all,  —  the  play  and  the  sleep 

Of  a  little  life,  —  what  cometh  then? 
To  the  hearts  that  ache  and  the  eyes  that  weep, 

A  wee  flower  bringeth  God's  peace  again: 
Each  one  serveth  its  tender  lot, — 
Buttercup,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not. 


Here  ends  this  Second  Book  of  Verse,  and  of  the 

Three  Hundred  Copies  made  and  printed 

by  us  in  this  wise  this  is 


No. 


